


Windmills

by AstridContraMundum



Series: After-comers Cannot Guess [7]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Max to the rescue and Morse to the rescue, Multi, season 6, with fluff and angst and h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-11-05 13:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridContraMundum/pseuds/AstridContraMundum
Summary: A mysterious car crash near Lake Silence and a run-in with DCI Ronnie Box prompt Endeavour to pursue an inquiry of his own.Meanwhile, Fred Thursday struggles to save his marriage, Endeavour and Max deepen their friendship in fond garden chats, Jim Strange follows his own agenda, and Endeavour unwittingly launches Mr. Bright on a second career.It's season 6, and fate moves full circle as an alternate universe becomes a parallel one.





	1. "Something Has To Be Lovely"

Thursday took a wide turn, following the thread of the road that rolled like a gray ribbon through dense, summer green trees and on toward Lake Silence. It was not yet noon, and already his shirt collar was wilting.

It was difficult to believe, how much could change in four years.

It was a day much like this, four years ago, when he had come out to Lake Silence to inquire about the body of a man found drowned in the lake’s dark waters—a day much like this when he had found Morse, who had all but disappeared upon his release from prison, sitting on the edge of a dock with Lady Belborough, watching a man speed across the lake on a red hydroplane.

Although, on that day, he had been driven out by DS Strange. Now, he was the one behind the wheel, driving DCI Ronnie Box.

 

Four years ago, Thursday was a happily married man with two children, dedicated to his career as a copper, but with an eye to the future, saving for his retirement.

 

Now, his life lay cracked into pieces, scattered at his feet--his marriage was broken, he’d been broken down in the ranks, and, he was . . . well . . . broke, with scarcely a penny to his name.

Once, Thursday was convinced of the wisdom of his experience—he was certain that he and Win would grow old together, surrounded by their grandchildren. Certain that a pep talk and a record player would be enough to bring a Morse back onto the force.

Now, he was sure of nothing.

 

Thursday took another curve, and the scene of the crash came into view. DS Jago and an officer in uniform were already there, waiting by the cordon, arms folded, scowling in the fierce, bright sun. To the left, under the spread of a shading tree, stood a teenaged boy in jeans and sunglasses, his hair curling wildly in the humidity: he looked for all the world like one of those undergrads who was so devoted to Morse’s poetry, one of those kids who tended to hang around in the woods near the lake house, writing in tattered notebooks and smoking pot.

 

It was a shame a boy had to be the one to stumble upon a sight like this: the car was a convertible, so the victims were in full view—the man hanging limply out of the car, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and the woman thrown clear, a gash of blood staining the side of her face.

As they pulled up, Thursday realized something odd: the boy was _inside_ the cordon, walking slowly about, looking down, as if searching for something in the tall grass. Thursday frowned in confusion and put the car into park.

Then, the boy moved into the sunlight, and—under that bright, July light—the angles of the his face were thrown into sharp relief—austere cheekbones, clean jawline and stubborn chin and . . . suddenly, Thursday realized it was no boy. 

It was Morse.

 

Oh, hell.

It was with a sinking feeling that Thursday swung himself out of the car. 

 

If there was anyone Thursday had ever met who was more obstinate and hardheaded than his current governor, it was his former bagman.

In that sense, they were exactly the same, two peas in a pod.

And in every other conceivable way, they were polar opposites.

For while DCI Box tended to rush a case through to a solid, decided conclusion—any solid, decided conclusion—DC Morse tended to move in circles, always asking a different question, always tilting the evidence to a different angle, always looking for a different connection.

Box skimmed the surface; the man could share a pint with Stalin and come away pronouncing him a “good ‘un,” an “all right bloke.” Whereas Morse could find something suspicious in a saint’s sock drawer.

What DCI Box lacked in imagination, DC Morse had in overdrive.

They were oil and water, and they were about to mix.

 

Thursday wasn’t sure if his blood pressure—or if what was left of his career—could handle the fall out.

 

“You call in about this?” Box grunted.

“Yes,” Morse said.

“All right. We’ll take it from here. Mind how you go.”

But Morse remained where he was, the confusion apparent on his face, even with the sunglasses shielding those overlarge, expressive eyes.

“Come on, then,” DCI Box said. “Out of the cordon with you, boy.”

Morse hesitated, and then, finally, he ventured, “Well. . . . It’s standard practice, surely, to ask whether or not I witnessed the accident, isn’t it?”

Box turned his head sharply at that. “Well, did you?” 

“No,” Morse replied, simply.

“Then move along,” DCI Box said.

“Aren’t you interested in when . . . “ Morse began, but DCI Box was already moving on to the next step, standing with arms akimbo, his hands on his hips, drinking in the scene.

“No skid marks. Asleep at the wheel, maybe?” he asked, turning to Thursday.  Then he barked to Jago, “Any ID on the victims?”

“Just take a look. It’s Adam Drake. The space man. You know, from the telly,” Jago supplied. “And some bird.”

“Some _bird_?” Morse asked, incredulously.

Incredibly, Jago seemed to blink at that, recognizing the reprimand, as if Morse was his guv’nor. “We don’t have a name for her yet,” he amended. 

 

The sound of a car engine caught their attention, and the five men looked toward the road. “Ah,” Box said, looking over his shoulder. “The sawbones.”

Dr. DeBryn parked his Morris alongside the police car and got out slowly, the curiosity clear on his face.

 

Yes, doctor. It’s Morse all right.

 

Once DeBryn drew near enough to take in the sight of Morse standing, arms stubbornly folded, face to face with DCI Box, the doctor suddenly looked down at his feet, as if to watch where he was stepping through the uneven, root-riddled grass. Thursday was close enough to catch the movement . . . and to see that it was done so that the doctor could hide a soft smile.

 

This was just dandy. The last thing Thursday needed was DeBryn egging Morse on.

 

“All right, then,” Box said, turning to Morse, “that’s you done. We need you to step out of the cordon.”

At the approach of Dr. DeBryn, Morse needed no convincing, thank God, and he stepped smartly outside the rope barrier. If Box thought Morse was doing so in obedience to his command rather than out of a desire to be far away from whatever might transpire as part of DeBryn’s initial assessment, so much the better.

If Box could have just left it at that, that might have been the end of it. Instead, he had to assert his dominance, as he always did.

“And next time," he said, "if you should happen upon a crash like this, you should know we put a cordon down so civilians don’t go trampling all over the scene with their size nines. _Standard practice_ in a case like this. Next time you go giving your elders and betters your lip, know that you can be arrested for interefering with a scene of crime. Now head out of here, my boy.”

Morse’s whole body seemed to go stiff at that, and he pulled himself out of his normal slouch to his full height. “You aren’t terribly observant, are you?" he snapped. "For one thing, I’m a size eight. And for another, I’m hardly 'a boy,' I happen to be thir . . . "

But, to Thursday’s relief, Box cut him off—turning his back on him as if to emphasize how unworthy he was of his time—and called out loudly to DeBryn.

 

“Adam Drake. That space nob from the colleges," Box he said. "There are no skid marks. Asleep at the wheel? Alcohol, maybe?”

DeBryn stepped inside the cordon and began to examine the man in the car. Morse, meanwhile, walked along the outside of the barrier so that he had a slightly better vantage point. 

 

“I wouldn’t get too close,” DeBryn said. “Exsanguination. Distinct smell of alcohol from his mouth. Some sort of vermouth? You may have a better guess.”

 

Thursday could barely repress a sigh. The doctor was not planning on making this easier, then. It was obvious who that comment was made for, on two counts; both the warning about the blood and the recognition of his superior expertise when it came to alcohol made it clear that DeBryn's words were meant for Morse.

 

And, predictably enough, Morse knew this, too.

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Morse said.

Box scowled at that, but he seemed to decide that it better suited his dignity to continue to ignore him.

DeBryn ducked inside the car, and then he straightened, emerging with a set of keys. “These were in his pockets," he said, holding them up. "Drake’s presumably. The car's not his. It’s registered to a Larry Humbolt. Address in North Oxford.” Then he reached into the car again, this time, emerging with a small book. “And this was in the console,” he continued. “A copy of George Meredith’s ‘Modern Love and Other Poems.' Heavily underlined. And that seems to be it." 

“So,” Box said. “Simple Isn’t it? Alcohol, flashy car, love poems. He was showing off for the girl. Driving too fast on the curve and hit a tree. And that’s that.”

From behind the cordon, Morse snorted a laugh. “George Meredith’s 'Modern Love' is hardly any sort of love poem. It documents . . .”

That note of derision was finally too much for Box. He turned and peered down at Morse, the barest trace of a threat clear in his stance. “Look, Goldilocks, I’m sure I told you to stop hanging about here. Now trip along off into the woods with you and go look for the three bears or something, all right?”

 

Jago laughed sycophantically at that. Thursday could barely stifle a groan.

 

Thursday knew it was going to happen before it did; he had years now, to accustom himself to the new Morse, the Morse who was so like a record player: all it took was a flip of the knob to change the number of revolutions per minute.

He had seen it first, that day at the lake house when he had brought Morse his record player—how he stood for a moment, eyes softly closed, listening to the song.

Right before he ripped the record off the turntable and smashed it to pieces.

Morse now seemed to vibrating at that frequency, as if energy was cracking all the way from his feet, planted firmly in the tall grass, to the frenetic ends of his hair.

 

He whipped the sunglasses off. “You condescending bastard,” Morse snapped. “I’ve every right to stand here. This is my property you’re trampling all over with your size nines, and I’m going to stand right here and watch until I’m convinced you’re doing things properly. Unless you think you can have me forcibly removed from my own land?”

Box blinked for a moment, taking this in.

Oh,” he said, laconically. “It’s _you_. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Endeavour Morse, sir,” Thursday said. “A former colleague form Cowley.”

 

The wounded look that flashed across Morse's face was a bit hard to take—after all, 'former colleague' was a bit of an understatement, wasn’t it? They had been guests at each other’s homes, for Christ's sake.

But couldn’t the lad give him a break, here? He knew the precariousness of his situation, knew how badly he needed to keep his job. It was this, or go live under a bridge somewhere. He just . . . couldn’t afford to . . .

Well, of course Morse didn’t understand. Hadn’t he lived in an unheated one-room shack for months? And he would do so again, Thursday knew, if the alternative meant kowtowing to a guv'nor like Box. 

Well, good for Morse, then. 

 

“I know who he is,” Box said slowly, and it was a statement that could be taken any number of ways.

 

The best Thursday could do was to try to deflect the tension, try to keep everyone on track.

“What about the passenger?” he called to Dr. DeBryn.

 

DeBryn looked up, blinking in the bright light. “Oh. I haven’t gotten to her yet. Thrown clear, by the look of things."

He walked over and knelt down next to where the dead girl lay twisted in the grass, her eyes staring vacantly up into the trees.

“Now, well, there’s a thing," DeBryn said. "Liver mortis. This purpling you see here." He gestured to the side of the girl's face, which was stained red-purple. "Once the heart stops pumping, blood settles according to gravity.”

“It should be on the other side of her face,” Thrusday said.

"There’s also a marked lack of bleeding from the laceration to her forehead," DeBryn said.

"So she was dead before the car hit the tree," Box said. "That could be why there’s no skid marks. He crashed the car intentionally."

"A dead girl on board? Perhaps he had cause," Thursday said. 

"So a murder-suicide then. He picks the girl up, kills her and then does for himself." Box heaved a heavy breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Nothing left but to get an ID on the girl, so that we can inform her family." 

“That’s all?” Morse asked. “If it’s that simple, why was he in somebody else’s car, then?  Where’s his?  Who is this Larry Humbolt? Isn't it odd that the girl doesn't have any sort of purse or bag? Why would a young couple be reading a sonnet cycle about middle-aged disillusionment and marital infidelity? Are we sure there isn't some third party involved?  Why . . . "

 

Box rounded on him, holding up a hand to silence him. “Only two people know what happened in that car, and they’re both dead. No point in milking it.”

 

“Only two people know what happened?” Morse repeated incredulously. “Why don’t _you_ find out what happened, and make the third?”

"And how am I to do that?" Box growled. 

"I dunno," Morse said with awful sarcasm. "Why don’t you try being a detective. Isn't that the whole point? To find out the truth when the dead can’t speak for themselves?"

When Morse's outburst was met only with silence, he added hesitantly, "I mean, we want to be sure, don’t we? For her sake and for his. It’s somebody’s reputation we’re talking about.”

 

And that's when it came—the moment Thursday feared might come to pass as soon as he realized it was Morse there, walking about inside the cordon. 

Morse turned to him, his blue eyes wide. “ _You_ can’t agree with this rush to judgement, can you?”

 

And Thursday was forced to choose. 

 

Thursday kept his eyes trained straight before him. “It’s the guv’nor’s call,” he said, tersely.

Morse’s eyes flashed for a moment at that, and then he slowly took a few steps back, as if he didn't quite know who this stranger was, inhabiting Thursday's body. Then he he shook his head, turned, and left, disappearing through the trees.

 

Like all bullies, Box waited for Morse to be out of earshot before commenting, “Let’s hope Goldilocks finds some porridge to soak up some of that drink. Christ. I feel buzzed just standing downwind from that bloke.”

Thursday said nothing. But when he turned, he saw DeBryn watching him, his eyes assessing behind his glasses. The eyes that always seemed to take in everything and comment on nothing.

Thursday couldn’t remember the last time he felt so small. He had a marriage but no Win, a job but no career. He had absolutely no money. And now, evidently, very little pride either.

Well.

Pride was for people who could afford it, wasn't it?

 

 *****************

Max was just preparing to slice a seed cake when there was a knock on the door. It was an odd time of day for someone to call, the afternoon just blurring into the softness of a summer evening.

He turned on his heel at once, padded down the narrow hall, and opened the door to find Morse, in a shirt and tie and jumper vest, looking rather less disheveled than he had that morning. 

 

For the briefest instant, Morse's eyes flew wide; he seemed almost to jump where he stood. Max looked down to his hand, to where Morse’s wide blue gaze was fixed, to where he still held the long kitchen knife, firm in his grip. 

 

Max turned the point of knife down. “It’s nothing sinister," he said, reassuringly. "I was just getting a seed cake out of the oven.”

“Oh,” Morse said. Then he laughed that laugh that Max had first heard last summer, when he had given Morse a lift in his car, when Morse had requested to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere. "I wasn’t quite sure. Last time I popped by, I thought you might strangle me with a scarf."

"What's this?" Max asked, perplexed.

 

Oh, yes. The Finch case.

 

"Oh," Max said. "Well, you should know, Morse, that I was merely trying to demonstrate . . ."

But the corner of Morse's mouth was still quirked in a smile.

It was a joke, then.

"Oh, never mind," Max said impatiently, with a wave of his hand. "I was just heading out into the garden, if you care to join me." He turned to go back inside, leaving it up to Morse whether or not he chose to follow. 

“Yes, thank you,” Morse said, stooping slightly as he came in through the door.

 

The bright afternoon was fading into that softness of time that is felt only in summer—right when evening is just beginning to fall, but the air is still warm and heavy with scent. The drowsy murmur of bees buzzing over fallen plums from a tree in the corner of the garden, the headiness of roses, and the butterflies flitting hypnotically, gave a feeling of torpor to the place, as if time had been temporarily suspended. It was the perfect symphony of summer, the sun just beginning to dip in the sky.

“It’s nice,” Morse said, hanging his satchel on the back of a white wicker chair. Then, he setteled down at the table and reached for a glass of iced tea.

Max waited for Morse to ask for something other than the seed cake and iced tea offered—for a Scotch or at least a beer—but he seemed to be working hard to keep up his good manners.  Max had the distinct feeling this was another "official visit."

In fact, Morse seemed more than happy with the tea, draining half the glass in one go. It was then that Max noticed that Morse's cheeks were stained pink, his hair curling damp at the temples. It was almost as if had run all the way over to the place. 

"Splash more?” Max asked.

Morse silently held out his glass. Just as Max took it, he felt a gentle breeze ruffle up his hair. It truly was a lovely evening. He could almost feel the tension of the day lifting off him, into the currents of sweet-scented summer air, the currents that allowed you to forget yourself  . . . just for a moment.

But when he looked up from pouring the tea, he came back to himself abruptly. Morse was watching him, a soft smile playing on his wide, expressive mouth.

"What is it?" Max asked. 

“Your face,” Morse said. “The garden suits you. Your whole expression. I just don’t usually see you looking so . . . happy.”

“Well, Morse, I suppose that’s not so surprising, is it?  Nine time out of ten when you’ve seen me over the years, it’s either been from a vantage point of fifteen feet away as I’m bent over a corpse, or in a cold and bare mortuary." 

Morse made that odd little movement so typical of him, suddenly looking sharply down, as if he didn’t quite approve of the words “corpse” and "mortuary" being uttered among the coneflowers.

Then he looked up, his expression determined. “Speaking of which, did I miss anything? At the autopsy?" 

Max paused for a moment. "Not exactly your case, is it?" he asked, wryly.

To Morse’s credit, he lowered his gaze, as if leaving it up to him whether or not he would divulge to him privileged information.

“They had both consumed quite a bit of alcohol," Max said, after another pause. "His stomach was otherwise empty. Her final meal: cheese, sausage and pineapple.”

”A party?” Morse mused.

"Possibly," Max said. 

Then Morse asked quietly, “How did she die?”

"Single blunt trauma to the parietal,” Max said, “leading to a sub-dural haematoma, increased pressure on the brain stem. And . . .  arrivederci, Roma." 

DeBryn was used to cataloging various manners of death in such a way--sticking to the facts, tossing off the litany of causes and effects in a cavalier manner. Because, after all, what was the alternative? 

Today, however, Max regretted falling into that habit. It was difficult to watch, the brief flicker of pain that twitched across Morse’s face, a face that Morse had once kept perfectly set, like a closed book. 

"Single blunt trauma," Morse said. "Someone hit her with something, do you think? Or threw her against a wall?" 

"It could have been that, yes," Max said. "There’s nothing to indicate the exact nature of the blow." 

"It seems . . . .," Morse began. "I mean, just once and she's . . . " He shook his head slightly. "What do you think happened to her?” he asked, his voice low and mournful.

"If I spent my days in contemplation of such questions, I think I would drink rather more than I do," Max mused.

 

Too late, Max wondered if that was quite the thing to say; Morse, after all, seemed to drink quite a lot—exactly, Max often suspected, for that very reason.

 

But Morse let the comment pass, humming noncommittally.  Max took a sip of tea.

After a while, Morse closed his eyes as if to rest them. His breathing seemed to even; he leaned further back into his chair, and gradually, his expression relaxed, as if he were reveling in the feel of the dying sun warming his face. Max had never remembered seeing Morse look so unguarded. He wasn't sure whether to look or to look away. 

 

Then Morse opened his eyes and furrowed his brow.  "Do you ever write out here?" he asked. 

"Write?"

"Yes," Morse said. 

“I’m a doctor, Morse. I’m hardly a poet," Max laughed.

The corner of Morse's mouth twitched. "Come now, Max. You'll never make me believe you don't have some notebook hidden in your house, somewhere.”

Max made a mental note to hide his journal in a less obvious place than under his mattress. After all, Morse had shown in the past he was not above finding his spare key and letting himself into the place.

But Morse, thank god, seemed to be already distracted, gazing down into his glass. Then he recited slowly: 

“As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade, to all the noises that my garden made, it seemed to me only proper that words, should be withheld from vegetables and birds.”

Then he shrugged one shoulder and concluded, "Let them leave language to their lonely betters." 

 

"Let them leave language to their lonely betters?" Max asked, with a laugh. "An odd sentiment for a poet, surely?"

"It’s an imperfect world," Morse said, simply. "In a perfect world, language wouldn’t have to work so hard to fill all the gaps between us." He looked, then, out over the tea roses. "Although maybe they _do_ talk? Plants and trees. Through their roots, perhaps? I've often wondered." 

Morse looked about the garden, his sharp gaze taking in everything, as if he expected that, if only he stayed still enough, he might hear the nasturtiums talk. Suddenly, Max wasn't sure if his wayward little garden could take Morse's scrutiny any more than, he, himself, could.  

“Currently I’m fighting a war of attrition with the greenfly over the tea roses,” Max said, humbly. "But yes. As a spot, I’m rather fond."

Morse smiled bemusedly, and Max somehow felt something more was required of him. 

“Well," he explained. "Something has to be lovely.”

 

Morse nodded, but said nothing. And somehow, Max knew that he understood. It was a nice companionable silence that followed, one that held no expectations. It was a sort of acceptance Max rarely knew.

 

“I feel that way, too. About the woods around Lake Silence. I went there because I didn’t want anyone to see me .....but I wasn’t alone,” Morse began. Then, he sighed heavily. "I don’t like to think about this girl. That she died there and nobody much seems to care. What’s her name? Has anyone even found out?”

“No,” Max said quietly. “I did take a postmortem photograph. For Thursday.”

“So they’ll identify her. And tell her family . . . what, exactly? Box won’t bother to get to the truth. Box. What a name. Doesn’t think outside the box. Doesn’t think outside the ring of his precious cordon.”

Morse turned and opened his satchel, which hung on the back of his chair. He took out a book and placed it smartly on the table.

“I found this, not far from the crash, after they all had left,” he said.

Max picked up the book. “How to Live a Happier Life,” he read. ”Perhaps he didn't finish," he added wryly. 

Morse snorted. “Wouldn’t have mattered if he had. I read it. Well, seventeen pages of it. It’s about as much as I could take, to be honest. How to be a selfish, self-centered arse with absolutely no moral compass might make a better title. It’s a horrible book, really. Underlined, just like you said that copy of Meredith was.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Max asked.

“Take it down to the station. Show it to Thursday. _He’ll_ be interested, I’m sure.” He shook his head in disbelief. "How can Thursday bear that man?"

"How does one bear anything, Morse? I expect because he has no other choice." 

Morse looked unconvinced at that. He took his glass in hand and lifted it high, finishing the last of his tea. "Well, I best be off. It’s a long way back."

Despite the misgivings he felt when he first found Morse on his doorstep, Max found he was disappointed now to see him go—and especially disappointed in his weak excuse for leaving. It was barely eight miles to Lake Silence, a fifteen minute drive. But Max was being foolish, Max was being sentimental.  After all, Morse had gotten the information he wanted, hadn't he?  What was the point of lingering in the garden?

Even if the breeze seemed to have turned from peaceful to plaintive upon the note of his leaving. 

 

But when Max followed him out along the path, walking him to the gate, he was surprised to see not Morse’s small sky blue Jag, nor the electric blue or canary yellow one that Bixby so seemed to favor, parked out front, but only a battered green bicycle, leaning up against the tree.

"Morse?" Max asked, uncertainly.  "Did you _bike_ all the way over here?" 

"It's not _so_ very far," he said.

"But you own a fleet of cars, don't you? Why not simply drive over?" Max asked.

“I’m not American," Morse huffed. "I needn’t drive everywhere.”

Max laughed. “I didn’t say you were.”

Morse looked annoyed; clearly Max had overstepped some boundary. But then, he seemed to shrug it off and looked at him solemnly.

“Thank you...for telling me. And thank you, too, well, for everything else.” Morse turned to pick up the bicycle, and Max felt it again; it was if a strain of sadness had entered somehow into the evening. 

"“Morse?" he called. "If you’d ever like to come and write in the garden, you’d be more than welcome." 

 

“Oh?” Morse said, raising his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said. Then he added, pointedly, “If I’m not at home, you can simply come in through the garden gate."

“I’d like that very much. Thank you,” Morse said, grabbing the bicycle by the handlebars. 

“And good luck tomorrow with the Inspector, Morse.”

 

Morse looked up at that and smiled bemusedly.

And it _was_ odd, the way the syllables came out. His breath had caught in his throat right as he had latched the garden gate, so that it sounded as if he had called Morse "Inspector."

_Good luck with the Inspector Morse._

What was even more odd, was how natural the four syllables sounded, how easily they fell off his tongue.

It was if he had said them a hundred times before, in some other, half-remembered life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This universe is slightly ahead timeline-wise, because I wanted part 2 to line up with the 1969 theft of Caravaggio's Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. It' s still on the FBI's list of top ten unsolved art heists. I think Bixby kept it, possibly. :0)


	2. “That Isn’t The Way to Cross The Road!”

 

Jim Strange was just leaving Castle Gate, files in hand, when he caught sight of a familiar figure across the room.

It was almost painful, seeing the old man. He was a shadow of his former self, stooping slightly, carting a pile of paperwork over to DCI Box, his guv’nor, a man with half of his years of experience. And, to top it all off, Strange had heard through the grapevine that Thursday had taken a bad beating just that morning, at the hands of some young toughs, and had been placed on light duties.

It was absolutely humiliating, all the way ‘round.

He wasn’t sure what was kinder: to say hello to the old man, or to slip quietly out; it was possible that Thursday would not care to be seen—bruised and slightly limping— by a former subordinate.

He was standing half-hidden behind some file cabinets, just contemplating his next course of action, when Morse, of all people, came striding into the office, in a white dress shirt and blue tie, his wild hair somewhat tamed, carrying a book and looking all business.

Huh. That was surprising. Strange hadn’t even known Morse was back in Britain. 

He supposed that Morse must have popped into town to see Thursday. Perhaps he’d take him out for a bit, take him out to the pub for a pint. It would do the Inspector a world of good.

 And sure enough, when Morse caught sight of Thursday, his face lit up, and he made a beeline straight for him.

 

“Sir,” he said, holding up the book.  “I found this yesterday, out along the road at the site of the Adam Drake crash. I thought that you would . . .”

“Adam Drake crash, did you say?” Box interrupted, sitting up smartly in his big leather chair.  “ _I’m_  who’s in charge of that case. What’s this, then? Let’s see it.”

Morse looked to Thursday as if for direction whether or not to obey. The confusion was plain on his face, even from Strange’s vantage point, across the aisles of desks.

 

And Strange knew just how Morse felt. A world in which Thursday was not in charge _was_ a bit like the world knocked slightly off its axis.

 

Thursday looked at Morse and nodded once, grimly.

Morse’s brow furrowed, but he turned then, swiveling almost on the spot, and slowly placed the book on Box’s desk.

“What’s this?” Box asked again.

“A book,” Morse said, helpfully, in a tone that suggested that perhaps Box might not know what such a thing was.

 

Strange huffed a quiet laugh.  

 

“I know it’s a book,” Box snapped. “The question is: what’s it doing here? What are _you_ doing here?”

“I found this, not far from the crash, after you had cleared off. It must have flown out of the car when it hit the tree,” Morse said. “It’s heavily underlined. Just like that copy of Meredith’s ‘Modern Love’ that Dr. DeBryn found.”  

“You aren’t still on about that poetry book, are you?” Box said. “Look, it’s like I told you, all we’ll find is an open and shut murder-suicide. The driver did for the girl before doing for himself. End of story.”

Morse picked the book up and flipped through it. “The book certainly is heavily underlined . . .  and annotated in the margins as well—whoever owned it had been making quite a study of it. It might give you some idea as to the killer’s motivation, I would have thought.”

“Motivation? What motivation could there be? They had a row, and he did for the girl, like I said.”  

“How do you know that?” Morse asked, in wonderment. “Just yesterday you said the only two people who knew what happened are dead. It seems odd that now you’re suddenly so certain.”  

Box leaned back in his chair, but his body was tense; it was like the movement of a snake ready to strike. “Now you’re just twisting my words around,” he said. “Well. Aren’t you clever?”

 

Thursday almost looked green, as if he’d rather be any place but right there, wedged between his current superior and his former bagman.

 

Morse took a deep breath, as if determined to start again. “Look . . . this isn’t Robbery . . .”

“How did you know I was at Robbery?” Box interrupted.

“Because I _asked_ ,” Morse said haughtily.  “It’s not all that hard.”

The imperious note struck a chord with Box, and he rose abruptly to his feet. “Why, you . . .”

Morse, however, remained where he was, undaunted.

“It might not hurt you to do the same. You can’t just grab onto the first likely theory,” Morse said, his voice rising in his impatience. “Sometimes you have to work a bit to find the bowl of porridge that’s _just_ _right_. Sometimes, you have to walk your size nines ten steps out of the cordon.” He slammed the book down on the desk. “Or else you might always be overlooking things that are right in front of your face.”

“Come again?”  Box shouted.

He looked like he’d like nothing better than to pick Morse up and break him in two. Instinctively, Strange felt himself tense, poised to leap in if necessary. Morse was much scrappier than he looked, but he didn’t fancy his chances against Box, a copper of the old school, a thug in a tight black suit.

 

Thursday knew this, too, all too well. In the days of old, he would never have allowed one of his officers to loom thus over another, in an implicit physical threat.

But they weren’t his officers, and the old man seemed beaten down, body and soul, as if he had lost all faith in himself.

 

“He didn’t mean it,” Thursday said, half-stepping between Morse and Box. “Did you, Morse? It just came out the wrong way.”

 

Strange appreciated what Thursday was trying to do.

Sadly, it was all, now, that he _could_ do. He lacked the authority to do anything else.

But Strange would bet his warrant card Morse meant every word.

 

For a moment, Morse looked utterly baffled, as if the words were about ready to explode right out of him; then he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Box seemed to take this as a triumph.

“Cocky little bastard,” he muttered.

This, finally, was too much for Thursday. “He was a good officer,” he said, fiercely.

Box snorted a laugh. “He’s a condescending little prick,” he countered.

Thursday said nothing more, but shuffled off, moving gingerly, back to his desk.

 

Strange turned and went out of the office down a different corridor. He didn’t want the old man to know he had seen him so powerless. An old dog without bark or bite.

It all seemed wrong, the three of them, all in the same office, but worlds away.

And Thursday.

Well.

It was enough to break your heart.

 

 

*****

In his office, Strange spread the charts before him, preparing for his report to all the big nobs up at Division.

 

The numbers at Castle Gate were not looking good.

And when the numbers did not look good, the Assistant Director of the Inter-Departmental Forward Planning Steering Committee did not look good.

 

What were Morse and Box saying, about a poetry book? Morse seemed to think there was something to it, whatever it was.

How many cases did they have, where things of that nature came into play?  There had been poem settings used as rendezvous points hidden in crossword puzzles, opera clues left by a serial killer, anonymous notes mailed in with quotes from poems and plays.

In the past, they had often consulted with someone from the colleges in such cases . . . . but then: Look at the Reece case, look at that mess with Lortimer, look at that madwoman, Mrs. Coke-Norris. Often enough, the culprit was indeed the don, himself, or a close family member.

It might make a lot of sense for a police force that held one of the world’s largest and most prestigious universities within its jurisdiction to have an independent consultant on board. Someone working for them exclusively, whose loyalty would be undivided.

Having an independent expert on staff, even if it were only on a part-time basis, would make a lot of sense, wouldn’t it?

Strange sat back and looked out of the window of his office, watching summer white clouds drift by the steepled skies of the city. A flock of pigeons fluttered in a flurry past, and then were gone as quickly as they came, leaving the sky silent.

It came back to him then, what Trewlove had said a few months ago. Curious, she had decided to take a look-see through Morse’s files, and found that, technically, he had never been relieved of duty.  

Morse could be a prickly buggar, no doubt about it.

But maybe a prickly buggar was just what DCI Ronnie Box needed to get his blinking numbers up.

 

*****

Strange stood at the wide front door and rang the bell. He was not quite sure how Morse would receive him; it seemed sometimes that Morse had not quite decided what to make of him.

Not that _he_ always knew what to make of Morse. When he first met him, he hadn’t cared for him at all. Pretentious sod. Strange had been annoyed when he had first met him on those stairs, making that prissy, disapproving—even slightly nauseated— little face at him, just because he had told him that he had gone to use the loo. As if he was just so high in the clouds that he never had the need to answer nature’s call.

But then, when Professor Copley-Barnes tried to make him look a fool right in front of the guv’nor, Morse piped up right away, putting the don firmly back in his place.

 

 _Venerable_ _the_ _Bede_ _may_ _have_ _been_ , _but_ _not_   _clairvoyant_.

 

Morse even managed to pull of that derisive little snort they all did, at the end his diatribe. He’d never seen a constable who had been able to do that, just as the dons did.

They were never friends exactly, Strange realized—nor were they ever likely to be. It was more like the relationship he had with his brother—sometimes they were mates, sometimes rivals, sometimes they rubbed along, sometimes they annoyed each other no end. Sometimes, they took the mickey out of each another. But if anyone else tried to take the mickey out of either of _them_ , they closed ranks immediately, presenting at once a united front.

 

A movement in the window caught Strange’s eye, as the curtains twitched. A pale, narrow face flitted from behind the glass and then disappeared.

So, Morse was checking to see who it was before condescending to answer the door, then. Pretentious sod. It was any one’s guess whether Morse would deign to speak with him. Probably on a ruddy deadline or some such thing.

But it was only a few moments before Morse threw the door open and seized him by the upper arm.

“You’re just in time,” he said. “You have _got_ to see this.”

Strange was too surprised by the enthusiastic greeting to speak—all he could do was to follow Morse as he was pulled along by the arm down a long hall, past bright rooms filled with dark ornate furniture, polished so that it seemed to glow before tall windows that allowed in the white July light.

Morse brought him through the doorway into a living room in the back of the house, where a thick Persian rug with large medallions covered the warm wood floor, and a set of green couches covered in throw pillows sat grouped around a telly.

This room was a bit untidier than the others:  in one corner, pages of newspaper were spread out on the floor, and in the middle of the room, a nest of throw pillows lay scattered. The coffee table was covered in books, along with a curry carry-out box and a blue china plate, scattered with a few orange slices and rinds.

Morse pulled him in front of the television set, which was droning with cartoons, the volume turned down. Then, he glanced at on odd, Scandinavian-looking clock on the wall.

“I’ve figured it out,” he said, pulling him over so that he was standing squarely in front of the telly. “It comes on every thirty-five minutes after the hour, every second hour.”

Morse went to turn up the volume and then returned to where Strange stood.

“Watch,” he said.

The screen went blank for an instant—and then there was the tinkling of music from an ice cream truck.

 

Oh, no.

 

Strange didn’t have the heart to hear Morse give old Mr. Bright a go. He was hardly a connoisseur of the fine arts, but even he could see the informational clip was a low-budget, agonizing nightmare.

 

“Stop!” Mr. Bright cried, a touch more melodramatically than Strange thought necessary. “That isn’t the way to cross the road!”

“Do you see who it is?” Morse asked.

Strange sighed. “Yes, Morse, It’s . . .”

“Shhhhhhhhhh!”

Strange hushed.

There was nothing else for it; he was forced to stand there and watch the whole bloody thing. He felt almost as if he was holding his breath, waiting for the torrents of Morse’s cutting remarks.

But none came.

He took a tentative glance at Morse’s face, prepared to see it framed in an attitude of contempt. But instead, Morse was staring at the screen, his big blue eyes transfixed, as if he had never seen anything quite like it.

 

Which, in fairness, he probably hadn’t.

 

“If the pelican can, then so can you,” Mr. Bright concluded. And then—there it was—that salute that never failed to bring a roar of laughter down at the office.

Morse turned the television off.

 

“The way to cross the road,” Morse said in wonderment.  “It isn’t that you _can’t_ cross the road; it can be done; you just have to look for the right _place_ to cross it.”  

Oh, blimey.

It was even more painful than the info spot.

Because wasn’t that common sense?

Strange knew that from the get-go—every move of his career, of his life, even, had been strategically planned. Up one road to a crosswalk, a quick stride across, and then down another.

While Morse, the poor sod, had spent his life hurling himself into the traffic and waiting for the impact.

“The way to cross,” Morse said. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? It’s not just _what_ you do, it’s the  _where_ and _how_ , too. It’s like water. Water always finds its own most natural course. It’s like something out of the Tao Te Ching.”

Strange laughed. “Tao Te Ching? What’s that, matey? Some type of Lo Mein?”

Morse frowned, looking annoyed for a moment; then he cast him an appraising look and shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “In your case, maybe.”

 

 Strange had the impression that he might have just been insulted, but he wasn’t quite sure.  

 

“And then, did you notice, the pelican, there at the end?” Morse asked.

 

“Yes,” Strange said. He thought it was rather hard not to.

 

“In medieval times, the pelican was considered a symbol of self-sacrifice. Their chicks’ beaks are so large, you see, it looks as if the birds are nearly being choked to death as they feed their offspring. As if they are giving their lives to feed their young. But look. Even _they_ can manage it, if they take a moment. If the pelican can, then so can you,” Morse said. “It’s deceptively simple, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” Strange said.

Morse nodded thoughtfully for a moment. “I wish they would air this in France. I was trying to talk to my publisher about it, but he was singularly unhelpful. Do you know what he actually said to me?”

“What?” Strange said.

“He said, ‘Fine, baby. Just go with it.’” Morse shuddered. “You think he might at least _pretend_ to be interested in what I have to say, seeing as his company gets forty percent.”

Morse shook his head as if he didn’t know what the world was coming to.

 

“So, why are you here?” he asked, abruptly changing tack.  “I would have thought you’d be awfully busy. . . what are you now?  Interdepartmental Something or other? I read about it in the Gazette.”

“Interdepartmental Forward Planning Steering Committee,” Strange replied.

“Hmmmm,” Morse said. “Steering what, exactly?”  

“Manpower. Resources. It’s a sort of quasi-managerial anticipatory role.”

Morse looked a bit horrified at that, so he shrugged and added, “Just shuffling paperwork, mostly.”

“Hmmmm,” Morse said again. “Have you seen Thursday lately?”

“Yes,” Strange said.

“So have I,” Morse said. “Well. I have and I haven’t.”

And for once, Strange understood just what Morse meant. “I’d have told them where to stuff it,” he said.

“Would you?” Morse replied. “I would have thought someone in a quasi-managerial anticipatory role would not be allowed to go so against the grain.” 

“Busted down a rank? Full disciplinary? It wasn’t right. And we’re still no nearer to finding out who had it in for Fancy and Meehan. Or to slowing down these heroin deaths.”

“Heroin deaths?”  Morse asked, sharply. “But Ames and Nero are dead. And Reece and Dawkins were arrested.”

Strange shook his head. “The deaths keep coming. We found an old bloke right in the street the other day. Choked on his own puke.”

Morse grimaced at that. Then he lowered his gaze, as if he was thinking something over.

Strange, in the meanwhile, couldn’t help but wonder if he might get a peek at those newspapers. They were all opened to the stock pages, he noticed, and some of the stocks were circled in red.

He wondered what ideas that Bixby bloke had. Strange had managed to save a tidy little sum and had been thinking of investing, but he couldn’t make heads nor tails out of all those columns of codes and numbers.

He thought he was being discreet, but Morse, of course, noticed and understood just what he was doing.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother looking at those, if he’s left them out,” Morse said. “He burns them all in the fireplace when he’s done.”

 Strange felt a bit embarrassed, as if he’d been caught cheating in school.

The look must have been clear on Strange’s face, because Morse added,“It’s all right. I’m sure Bix would give you some advice, if you are looking to invest. We do owe you one, after all, you know.”

Strange had rather thought that it was _he_ who had owed Morse one, but if Morse felt otherwise . . . perhaps this might be his angle.

“Actually, that’s why I came ‘round. I was wondering if you might do me a favor?”

“A favor?” Morse asked uncertainly.

“I just ran it by Division. We’re looking to bring someone in. Someone who might be willing to work as a consultant. In cases that involve the colleges. You can see the sense of it: it’s unwise to call over for just anyone. The culprit’s gown just as often as town, after all. We need someone who’s independent from that whole scene, someone who would put the case’s interest first, someone we can trust.”

Morse looked at him skeptically.

“Does this have anything to do with improving what must be the appalling statistics for DCI Box’s department?”

Strange hesitated. “Possibly.”

Honesty seemed to win Morse over.

“All right,” Morse said. “I’ll think about it.”

Then, there was a sound of movement at the door.

“Endeavour!” called a voice. “Miss Frazil’s here.”

There were footsteps in the hall, and then that Joss Bixby bloke came in with Miss Frazil, from the Oxford Mail, her heels clicking smartly as she stepped.

“Hello, Sergeant,” said Miss Frazil.

“Miss Frazil,” he replied.

Then she turned to Morse.

“Well, Morse. I thought you might elude me forever. You still owe me that interview. I trust you haven’t forgotten.”

 

So, that must have been the price Morse paid for Miss Frazil’s investigative calls to Kingston, then—for getting the goods on Dawkins.

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “I remember. I didn’t intend to put you off for so long. I just didn’t . . . I didn’t have anything to say before.”

Miss Frazil laughed. “What about all that drama up at the colleges last winter?”

Morse scowled, looking cross as two sticks. “I don’t much want to talk about _that_. . . and besides, that’s old news. What I’m giving you is an exclusive. It’s about my new book.”  

Miss Frazil raised her brows. “An exclusive? You promise? I don’t want to call it such just to see whatever you say turn up in another paper.”

“No. It’s an exclusive. I know, because no one knows anything about it. Except for Turner. Because I’ve just decided on it today.”

 

Oh, blimey.  

Morse wasn’t going to write some book based out of something from Mr. Bright’s info spot, was he?

Although, if there was anyone who could find something in nothing, it was Morse.

 

“Oh, Bix?” Morse said, before Strange could protest, “Before Strange goes, could you, you know, give him a stock tip or two? Advice on what to buy?”

“Glad to, old man,” Bixby said.

Strange had no choice then, but to follow Bixby out of the room. He hadn’t ever really spoken to the man, and he wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with being foistered off on him now, without Morse as a buffer. There was something about that smooth character that made him feel plodding and slow.

“Au revoir, Strange,” Morse called. “Next time, tell me you’re coming, and I’ll bake a cake.”

Strange didn’t know how to reply. Once, he would have assumed that Morse was being a wise acre, but now, he wasn’t sure.

Perhaps he might actually just do that.

Then, suddenly, he felt it, just the trace of a swooping feeling in his gut.

 

What had he just done?

******

It was difficult to understand what Bixby saw in things like this. The lights flashing erratically against the black sky, the screams in the dark, the discordant music that blared from every kiosk, the metallic, sinister tinkle of the carousel.

It looked for all the world like the same patchwork carnival that had traipsed through the county four years ago. Endeavour noticed the same shooting game, with the red and yellow canopy, where, long ago, he had competed with Bruce, when Bunny had told him he must be a good policeman but a pretty poor detective.

“Do you want me to win you a tiger?” Endeavour asked sullenly.

But Bixby seemed determined that Endeavour not ruin his good mood. His dark eyes were positively beaming, shining in the reflection of the colored lights.

“Yes, actually. That would be smashing,” he said.

Endeavour looked at him skeptically.

“I’m serious,” Bixby said, in a manner that was anything but. “No one has ever won me a carnival prize before. Here,” he said, steering him to a large tent, “let’s have a pint.”

That sounded perfect to Endeavour. It was only through the fuzz of some sort of alcohol that he’d be able to get through the night. He hated the loud, harsh music, the rides that shook you all about, as if you were getting thrown or tossed. He hated all the screaming, the sounds that left you uncertain whether the riders were enjoying themselves or terrified.

Bixby handed him a pint and then stood him by a post the marked the entrance to the Whirbelwind.

“Now, just stand right here and I’ll be right back.”

Endeavour’s heart jumped. He wasn’t going to leave him here was, he?  

“Where are you going?” Endeavour asked.

“It’s a surprise, old man,” Bixby said, looking delighted.

And how could he ruin it for Bixby? There was nothing else for it but to play along. He would look straight ahead, not let himself be distracted. He would not go back to the beer tent. He would stay right here.  

At least wearing his sunglasses, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and shadowed in the darkness and colored lights, he hadn’t been approached by too many strange people. Only two had recognized him so far. And it had been all right, they had been quite nice, really. He could do this. 

He was standing at the post, when he heard a familiar voice call.

“Hello, stranger.”

He looked up to see Miss Thursday walking toward him, a small purse swinging jauntily at her side.

He hadn’t seen her since he found her working in a shop last summer. He never was quite sure how she felt about their meeting, about him encouraging her to call her parents. He rather wondered if she thought that he had overstepped his bounds.

“Hello, Miss Thursday,” Endeavour said. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” she said crisply.

“Your parents?”

“Same as ever,” she said, in a tone that made it clear she didn’t intend to elaborate on the topic.

Endeavour took a sip of his beer and let it pass. He had guessed as much, from the gray fog that seemed to hover around Thursday, the two times he had seen him since he'd been back.

She turned, then, abruptly, casting him an appraising look.

“So what’s all this?” she asked, a smile apparent in her voice.

“What’s all what?”

“All _that_ ,” she said, nodding towards him. “In disguise, Or hiding from someone?” 

 

Well, it was obvious why he’d be hiding, wasn’t it? In a t-shirt and sunglasses, he wasn’t as easily recognizable from the photographs on the back of his books.

Or maybe she didn’t quite mean what she said; maybe it was just a remnant of that old game between them, the one-sided game that he had never quite figured out how to play, let alone how to win.

It was odd, remembering all that now. When he had seen her last summer, he had had his own agenda, and she had had hers. This artful, playful banter of hers, he had quite forgotten.

 

“Incognito?” she said, with a trace of a laugh.

“Something like that,” Endeavour replied.

 

And there was a memory there—hidden in the pitch of her voice and in the trace of the scent of her shampoo—of a flutter he once felt whenever she opened the Thursdays’ front door, as if he had been knocked a bit breathless. A memory of how once his heart seemed to beat out of time, as he stood awkwardly in the corner of the dining room, as she teased Sam, as she teased him.

The night he had walked her home from the Moonlight Rooms, he had felt almost as if he were floating. It was the one time he felt that he had measured up to her, managed to match her word for word.

 

 _Well_ , _there_ _are_ _coppers_ _and_ _there_ _are_ _coppers_.

 _Oh_ , _and_ _what_ _sort_ _of_ _copper_ _are_ _you_?

 _I’m_ _the_ _sort_ _that_ _see_ _young_ _ladies_ _safely_ _home_.

 

 He smiled at the memory.

 

“You don’t look like you anymore,” she said.

 

And his smile died. And his heart felt as if it missed a beat. Because there it was—the flash of another memory. Of sitting on the swing by Lake Silence, of Thursday returning to him his old warrant card. With a photo that didn’t quite look like him.

But he was finished with that. He didn’t even collect fir cones anymore. Well, just that one at the New Year’s Eve party . . . but that had been a particularly trying night.

 

“What does me look like?” Endeavour asked, confused.

 

People change. The paths divide and divide. Why comment on it? What good does it do?

 

“Not like _this_ ,” she said.

 

And he was glad he was wearing the sunglasses, because his eyes were stinging. Because he didn’t want her to see his face. 

 But that was ridiculous, she didn’t mean it. Miss Thursday knew nothing of the lake house or of Pagan or of fir cones or of Josephine.

 

It was just the old game. 

 

She would have gotten along well with his old set from when he was up—funny, how he had never noticed that before.

Well, he was done with it—done on the day that he smashed the Pagans and Morses and Endeavours trapped in the walls of Maplewick Hall. He was done with it.

 

“There you go. Maybe I’m not me. Not anymore,” Endeavour said.

“That’s too bad,” Joan said.

 

Was it? Who can say? And the path divides and divides: and, suddenly, he could see it all, how it all would have fallen out between them. He never would have been able to keep up with her, with her playfulness, her sharpness. He would stand at dawn on a deserted sidewalk, and say in a voice choked with tears, “You mean the world . . .” and then, those last two words “—“to me,”—would freeze somewhere in his chest.

He would try to tell her with his eyes, but that would not be enough for her; she’d be uncertain if it was real, what he said, or just part of the game.

They might be on a rooftop, overlooking Oxford, the steepled skies framed against the sunset. “Come closer,” she’d say, and his heart would burst from his chest . . .

.... and then she’d offer to set him up with a friend.

He could blurt it out, even: “Marry me!” And she would look at him, wondering if he was serious, wondering if he was in earnest, not understanding that, of course, he was—not understanding how awful, how unequal he was to being anything but.

 

Would it be her fault? For demanding he be what he could never be. His fault? For not being able to give what she needed?

No. Of course not. It was all just how it goes.

 

 “It’s just how it goes,” he said.

 

He wished this conversation would end now.

He wished Bixby would come back and save him.

Because Bixby had saved him. From all the futile, endless dances of flirtation and confusion that ended him in the same place again and again and again: Alone. Standing on the outside of the window looking in, wondering how everyone else made the dance look so simple, wishing he knew how to join in.

With Bix, it had all been different. He wasn’t given to subtleties. He cut a figure almost larger than life, his intentions clearly broadcast out to the world, so that he was positively radiating with it: with his desire to live life to the hilt, his desire for love, his desire. Words had not been necessary. And one night Pagan had simply thrown himself at him, in a dark and starlit wood.

.... A thought which brought him yet again full circle. Perhaps Miss Thursday had a point.

It was possible, that, even in the face of Bixby’s clear intent, DC Morse might have still held himself aloof, standing on his dignity.

Whereas dignity was something Pagan had given up on long ago.

But Morse? He might have chosen to remain stiffly behind his wall, he may have let Bix slip out of his life without even that first kiss on the dock, he might have been left with nothing of Bixby but Pippa’s movie reels.

 So.....

 

 “Maybe I'm not me anymore,” Endeavour said.

And that sounded odd, too. Or was it? Perhaps she felt the same way. Years had passed after all.

“You?” he asked.

“I’m still me,” Miss Thursday said.

 

But  that couldn’t be so. Now she was being dishonest, surely. The path divides and divides, and she couldn’t possibly be the same girl who once teased her brother at breakfast.

Or maybe it could be so. Maybe it was possible to change without fracturing, to cross the road without getting struck by a lorry. Maybe Miss Thursday, with eyes that flitted and a voice that lilted, knew the secret of how to affect change naturally—emerging from the chrysalis as a butterfly, rather than flying to pieces like a record dashed to the floor. Maybe she knew it, the secret.

Endeavour would hardly know.

 

 “Well, good for you,” he said, at last. And he felt them ... felt a telltale stinging in his eyes, and he hated himself for it, he hated that it was further proof that it was true, what she had said.

 She must have finally realized that it wasn’t much of a game to him, because, then, her tone changed.

“Morse . . .”  she began.

And then Bixby was there, walking back through the crowd.

 

It took all of his resolve to keep his feet rooted to the spot, not to throw himself at him the way he had that night in the woods.

He approached them, the question clear on his face. And Endeavour blinked behind his sunglasses and swallowed. And it was all right. It had all just been a game. Just with questions rather than fir cones.

“Bix, this is Miss Thursday, the Thursdays’ daughter. Miss Thursday, this is Joss Bixby.”

“Ah,”  Bix said. “So, nice to meet you at last.”

“It’s Joan,” Miss Thursday said, with one shake of his offered hand.

It was, at least, less awkward than introducing him to Mr. Bright; Miss Thursday must know exactly who Bix was, from her parents.

And then, mercifully enough, they were chatting. Something about Miss Thursday’s new job. Endeavour could hardly follow the thread of the new conversation. He was still turning circles, turned all around, entangled in the web of the last one.

“ _You_ _don’t_ _look_ _like_ _you_.”  

“ _What_ _does_ _me_ _look_ _like_?”

“ _Not_ _like_ _this_.”

Bix and Miss Thursday’s conversation seemed cordial enough; his voice rich and warm, hers rippling as always with that hint of laughter. And they made it look so easy.

And Bixby had saved him from all of this. 

And then a group of her friends hailed her, and she ricocheted off, back onto her own path. They were like two small moons in the same orbit that had once again narrowly escaped collision.

 

And Bixby was saying . . . “Come on, before they have a shift change.”

And he followed then, in Bixby’s wake, but his mind was still circling in the currents.

 _Maybe_ _I’m_ _not_ _me_. _Not_ _anymore_.

 

Perhaps if he just said it once, out loud, he could set the circling birds straight, set them as birds on a telephone line.

 

But to whom? 

If only he knew someone who had seen into the heart of such matters— someone he could ask without the fear of being a burden.

The closest he had come to broaching the topic was with Thursday, and he’d never make that mistake again. Thursday would be sure to follow the question right back to its origin point, circling around who was to blame, a question Endeavour didn’t have any interest in anymore.

And certainly not Bixby.

Never to Bixby. Because there he stood, absolutely beaming with whatever it was he had planned. Endeavour hardly dared to hazard a guess.

Bix waited for him to catch up and then turned, leading him to the Ferris wheel. And Endeavour hesitated. It was sort of, well, a romantic, sort of thing, wasn’t it? Something set aside for couples?  Bixby worried sometimes, he knew, about what it looked like in public. That it looked like... well, what it was.

But Bixby climbed into the seat, so Endeavour followed. And when he sat, Bixby reached forward and snapped the bar shut across them.

And the wheel slowly began to revolve.

Up at the top, once they were at the highest point, the wheel slowed and stopped. Endeavour looked at Bix uncertainly. Had the mechanism broken down? Were they trapped?

But Bix smiled that closed-lipped, self-satisfied smile, and Endeavour understood immediately—Bix had planned this, slipped some carnival worker a bit of cash to stop the ride, to leave them for a moment, hanging alone amidst the stars.

And Endeavour couldn’t help but laugh.

From up here, at a safe distance, the world looked the way Bixby must see it. The colored lights blinked like beacons, like balloons at a child’s party; the screams were muted to roars of laughter.

And watching from this vantage, it was clear to see that the people below were—more or less—happy. None of them were sitting on a bench and wondering “am I me?” They were all of them lost to such questions, lost in the moment. 

Bixby reached up and pulled the sunglasses off his face, and, suddenly, the world was much brighter. And Bix’s eyes were dark with bright lights reflected in them, just like the starlit night around him.

And then Bix kissed him.

His mouth was warm and hard and insistent against his, and his hand was soft in his hair, and the wheels slowed down, just like a thousand dazzlingly-lit Ferris wheels rolling to a halt.

 

“Something has to be lovely,” Max had said.

And it was true.

And not only for places.

It was true for people, too.

 

Somebody has to be lovely.

 Endeavour pulled back, and, for a moment, the universe was reduced to just the two of them and the warm summer air and the black sky scattered with distant lights.

And Endeavour made his decision.

 

DC Morse was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right on one score. It was down to people like him to keep the Gulls and the Wintergreens and the Deares in check, so that the Bixbys could remain as they were, with eyes full of stars, believing in the green light.

And making light out of everything and making light.

 

That, then, was the secret of he and Bixby—they were two halves of the same whole. One fell so that the other could soar, one soared to catch the other from falling.

 

It might not be too terrifying, after all, taking up DC Morse’s mantle. 

There’s a way to cross the road and a way not to cross the road. 

And with the Assistant Director of the Inter-Departmental Forward Planning Steering Committee indicating the way to cross, just like the green man at a PELICON, what could possibly go wrong?

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. "We've Got It Down For Scraps and Spares"

Bixby passed through the sitting area of their room, dropped the oversized stuffed tiger into a chair, and stripped off his tie.

Endeavour, meanwhile, padded off into the bathroom, looking knackered. Bixby thought that he would have a good time at the carnival; sometimes he just needed a bit of encouragement.

And although it had once made Bix cringe, he now thought it wasn’t such a bad idea, Endeavour’s ensemble of sunglasses, t-shirt and faded jeans. It did give him a tinge of anonymity, making him look younger and sloppier than he did in the artfully-arranged black and white photographs that graced the back covers of his books.

It helped, too, that his casual clothes rendered the two of them so mismatched; dressed in such opposite ways, they looked a little less obvious, a little less like a couple—and that served to garner them fewer furitive looks as well.

 

It was for the best: When Endeavour wasn’t bombarded with too many people, too many stares, he actually did quite well. At the carnival, one young couple had, in fact, recognized him—despite his traveling “incognito”—and he handled the situation with surprising grace.

Although Bixby had to admit, he couldn't help but worry when Endeavour began rambling on about the informational spot he seemed so obsessed with, the one featuring his former boss, Mr. Bright.

But when the conversation naturally progressed into how the info spot was shaping Endeavour's new book, Bixby could see at once a sparkle in the couple’s eyes, a warmth in their smiles, as though they had been allowed privileged information, admitted into some secret circle of hipness.

 

It was quite clever of Endeavour, really. Drumming up an undercurrent of interest in what he had coming next.

Or, it would have been, if he had planned it at all.

 

Bixby tossed his rumpled shirt into the hamper and went into the bathroom, where Endeavour was brushing his teeth at his sink.

He paused, frowning in dismay. Endeavour was leaning forward oddly— so that his face was inches from the mirror—looking solemnly into the eyes of his reflection.

At Bixby's approach, Endeavour lowered his toothbrush, and his bright blue eyes swerved to meet his in the mirror.

 

“Do I look like me?” he asked.

 

Oh, God.

Maybe it had all been a little too much. All the lights and the noise must have overloaded those circling gears.

 

“Yes,” he answered slowly.

 

Bixby had no idea what Endeavour was thinking, but evidently, he gave the right answer—Endeavour’s whole body seemed to relax, and he looked much happier. It was with definite satisfaction that he spit the toothpaste into the sink.

 ******

By the time Bix climbed into bed and stretched out alongside Endeavour, he decided that it must just have been a random quirk, that odd little question.  Maybe Endeavour was still thinking about that mustache that Bix hadn’t been too keen on.

 

Bixby might have proven time and time again that he knew nothing of art, but, really, if you have a face like Endeavour’s, why hide it? The whole idea was akin to walking into the Louvre with a magic marker and drawing on the Mona Lisa. 

Not to mention, it was scratchy as hell when they kissed. And even worse when . . .

 

But then, suddenly, Bixby was forced to wonder if, after all, there wasn't some meaning hidden behind Endeavour's earlier, peculiar question. Because, in one quick movement, Endeavour rolled over and wrapped one long, wiry arm around him, pulling Bix into his chest. Then, Endeavour brushed his face against the top of his head and took a deep breath, as if hoping to inhale him.

 

The first time Endeavour had done that, Bixby had felt himself tense—he felt a bit ridiculous, being embraced thus. He was used to being the holder, so to speak, not the one held. The oak, rather than the vine.

He eventually came to realize that Endeavour tended to pull him close into him when he was anxious about something. It was as if Endeavour hoped, by curling himself around him, to shield him from the world.

Which was completely unnecessary. Bix had been on his own since he was sixteen and had managed quite well, if he did say so himself.

But it was impossible to take offence at these idiosyncrasies of Endeavour’s, when it was so clear he meant well.

It was even a little sweet.

In .... well....a daffy sort of way.

 

Endeavour nuzzled his face in Bixby’s hair and sighed. Then his body relaxed, his breathing evened, and Bix felt his own breathing slow in sympathy.

It was all right.  Bix knew his manners after all, knew it was polite to accept a gift offered, even if it was nothing one required. 

 

“Strange offered me a job today,” Endeavour said.

 

And there it was . . .

 

“What?” Bixby asked, pulling himself up so that he was looking into Endeavour's face, rather than his chest. 

“He’s got some managerial position, at Division, Strange. And he said they are looking to bring someone on," Endeavour said slowly. "As a consultant. Division reevaluated its policy of just calling over to the colleges for someone, after what happened, you know, with Reece. . . .”

 

“What would you be doing?” Bixby asked. 

“I would just be available, I suppose, as a resource. You know that car crash I happened upon the other day? There were two books in the car; both had passages underlined. I would hazard that no one has even cracked them open.”

 

Bixby felt his heart sink. Each time Endeavour returned to Thames Valley, he started out sitting behind a desk and then ended up . . . somewhere else. Drugged in a pop band’s mansion or held at gunpoint at Lonsdale.

 

 

Bixby frowned. “Are they going to pay you anything?”

Endeavour stilled. “You know, he didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

Bixby snorted. Most likely, they had no intention of giving him a penny. There had been so many budget cuts all over the city—there was one thing or another in the papers every week.  

And then, there was his own experience. Since renovating the house on Lake Silence, Bix had become more and more interested in construction. He had assembled a firm and applied for a few government contracts, but it was all the same: the city was interested in giving contracts only to the lowest possible bidders.

Clive Burkitt, the weak-chined councillor in charge of the housing and planning department, was particularly onerous on that score. 

Nevermind if the designs were hideous, a blight on the cityscape. Nevermind even if they were fire traps or so poorly and cheaply built that they began to disintegrate as soon as the officials cut the ribbon. Bix had finally washed his hands of the whole business in disgust, pursuing instead his own projects. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't have the money to fund them, to do things properly and with style. 

 

“Are you going to accept it?” Bixby asked. "The position?" 

“Yes,” Endeavour said.

 

Well, that was certainly unequivocal.

 

“Well,” Bixby said. “They ought to pay you something. Jesus. You can’t let these people walk all over you.  It’s like I’ve always told you, old man: there are two sorts of people in the world: those who take and those who get taken.”

Endeavour stilled at that. Bix could practically feel the waves of disapproval radiating from him.

“I don’t know," Endeavour said, uncertainly. "I thought it might be worth it. I mean, I’d be working with Thursday. So maybe . . . " 

 

Ah. The question of Thursday had been on his mind, he knew.

 

Well, one thing was reassuring, at any rate.

If he was to work with Thursday, the Inspector would be able to make sure he didn’t take matters too far. If there was trouble, Thursday would be sure to reign him in.

 

 *********

Endeavour placed a box on a desk and looked about the large office, his confidence wilting with each tick of the plain, round clock on the white wall.

When he lay in bed last night, holding Bixby to his heart, he had felt certain of his decision—it had just seemed the right thing to do.

But now he wasn’t as sure. Now, he felt much like he had on that first day that he had been accepted into Julian Morrow’s tutorial, uncertain who to talk to, where to sit.

He wished that Thursday would come in to the station, but, instead, the first person to arrive was Alan Jago, the husky-voiced sergeant who seemed to be DCI Box’s right-hand man.

 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Jago said.

 

And, of course, he was him—who else would he be? He hoped this man wasn’t going to put him through the paces the way Miss Thursday had, right on his first day.

 

 “Yes. Is DI Thursday about?”

“He’s checking in with the sawbones. Yesterday’s stakeout got a bit lively.”

“He’s all right, though?” Endeavour asked, sharply. It was no wonder then, Thursday appeared so weary yesterday, when he had tried to show him that book.

“He’s still standing. Just got placed on light duties, and he’s already trying to get the clear,” Jago snorted a bit at this, and then jerked his head toward Endeavour’s box.

“Is this yours?”  he asked.

“Yes,” Endeavour said. “I couldn’t see a desk.”

“No,” Jago agreed. “Come on, then.”

 

Jago led him to a doorway of a dark room and turned on the lights, which flickered menacingly, much like a lightning storm. Once the fluorescent lights steadied, they revealed a small office that was almost like a closet; a set of steps led down into it, as if it were a hole or a trap.

Endeavour didn’t mind at all that it was small; he much preferred that, actually. But the fact that there was only one way in and one way out made his heart seize up a little, feel heavy in his chest.

And the boxes. The place had been used for storage, evidently, and it was filled with boxes and old file cabinets and . . . and anyone could be hiding behind it all.   

 “I’ll let you get settled in,” DS Jago said.

 

Endeavour stood for a moment, holding his box. Then, he took a deep breath and walked down the steps.

********

Thursday headed down the hallway to the vending machines and paused.

Huh. That was odd. Someone had stacked the boxes from the storage room out along the hall. Bit of spring cleaning, maybe?

He shrugged and kept on going until he reached the machines. He put some change in the slot and pushed the button for a packet of crisps. And.

Nothing happened.

 

Really.

Even this?

 

Was the entire universe _this_ set against him? Was this some sort of sign that he had fallen _so_ far out of favor, that everything really _was_ as hopeless as it seemed?

 

He banged angrily on the machine, once, twice, three times, but the damn packet just hung there from the bloody metal catch.

God damn it.

He banged on the machine again, in pent up frustration.

 It was hard to imagine how this week could possibly get any worse.

 

“Hello, sir,” came a low and mournful voice from behind him.

 

Oh, hell.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said, shortly. “What are you doing here again?”

Morse pulled himself up to his full height, looking affronted.

“I work here now.”

“Work here?” Thursday replied incredulously. “Since when?”

 “Since today,” Morse said. "I'm working as a consultant. I was told to report here at 0900 hours, for further instruction." 

 

Perfect.

 

Morse tilted his head. “You all right? I hear there’s been some excitement.”

“Just some rough and tumble. Only upstairs placed me on light duties. Tried getting them to reconsider, but it’s a no go.”

“No shame in it,” Morse said. “Better to be safe, than sorry.”

Thursday grunted. Easy for the lad to _say_. Seeing as those were words he certainly never _lived_ by.

 

"Getting squared away?" called DCI Box, strutting down the hall in such a manner as to take up as much space around him possible.  “We didn’t have any room up here, but to be honest, I wasn’t expecting you. Friends in high places, eh?"

Morse didn't seem to know what to say to that, and who could blame the lad? He never was exactly Division's poster boy. 

 

"Tell you what,” Box continued. “We've got no anonymous letters with quotes from Romeo and Juliet in today, so you can go ahead and get an ID on that girl, since you’re so keen." He turned to Thursday. "You have the photograph, right? The one from DeBryn?" 

"Yes, sir," Thursday said.

 “Since you're on light duties, why don't you go along, Fred," Box said. "After all, it's not as if Oxford’s poet laureate has a warrant card, is it?"

Thursday held his breath, lest the lad argue to the contrary. Surely Morse understood that his returning his card was merely a symbolic gesture?

But blessedly, Morse didn’t mention it.

“Fine then,” Morse said.

"Sir,” Thursday said. 

****************

He and Morse walked out the back doors and over to the garages, and suddenly, they were step matching step, just like the days when Morse was his bagman.

It was just what Thursday wanted.

Four years ago.

Now, it was the last thing he wanted.

 

When Thursday had first found Morse at the lake house, he thought the lad had holed up there in rebellion—that choosing to live in such an unconventional manner was just one more way to tell the world just where it could stick it. 

Over the years, he’d been forced to reevaluate his initial assessment.

Over the years, he came to believe that the lad lived thus because he honestly couldn’t do any better.

 

It was shell shock. Or something like it. Thursday wasn’t quite sure, but god knows he’d seen enough of the like of it during the war.

Morse had given all he had to the force. And that was that.

Thursday had finally realized it, made his peace with it, on that awful day at Maplewick Hall, where Morse had become completely unglued, hurling a chair at his multiplied reflection in a frenzy, a fury of self-hatred that had been agonizing to watch.

It was cruel, really, to ask any more from him. The cold, hard fact was that the lad wasn’t up to it. That whole mess at the Moonlight Rooms and then at Lonsdale last winter should have made that clear once and for all.

 

It was true, that Castle Gate had the lowest efficiency rate within Thames Valley. And that DC Morse had had one of the higher personal solve rates during his career on the force. The motive behind the move was clear enough. 

He wished he knew what bleeding opportunist would try to take advantage of that, to try to fit him out now, after all that had happened, as some sort of “consultant.”

 

Thursday would dearly love to throttle the man senseless.

 

"Friends in high places," Box had said.  What "friends in high places"  could Morse possibly . . . .

 

Thursday would dearly love to throttle Strange.

 

But, that was perhaps unfair. Morse had been incomprehensible to Strange before and was most undoubtedly incomprehensible to him now.

It was likely that Strange just didn’t know any better.

*****

“The car’s a cut and shut," Mac said, wiping his hands on an oily rag. "Two write-offs welded together.”

“So two halves of two different cars soldered together, then?” Morse asked.

”That’s it. Looks the part, but no structural integrity. A collision and the thing just disintegrates." 

"Oh,” Morse said. 

Thursday looked hopefully over into the emptied car lot. "Be glad of a motor from the pool, if you’ve got one spare, Mac," he said. 

"All spoken for, Fred," the mechanic replied. 

"What about number nine?" Morse asked, nodding to a pegboard hanging with keys. "What’s wrong with it?" 

"Nothing," said Mac, walking over to a car covered in a tarp and gesturing for them to follow. "It’s just had its day, that’s all."

He pulled the tarp back. "We’ve got it down for scraps and spares."

 

And there it was: their old black Jag, taken half to pieces. Morse's blue eyes went wide at the sight, as if he'd been punched right in the gut. And it was an awful sight. Horrifying, really.

This was more than a packet of crips hung on a catch. This was the Universe telling them that they had their day. 

 

It was over.

 

“It’s over,” he had told Morse, sternly, as Morse sat, his eyes shining with Scotch and his hair full of leaves, in a chair at the lake house. 

 

_It's over._

 

Why couldn’t he tell him that now? 

 

Mac, however, continued on, oblivious to what had just happened.

"I’ve got a nondy coming in for an oil change," he said. "If you’ll give me half an hour."

 ****************

Even the way Morse drove now. Jesus. He sat at the edge of the seat, like an old man, as if terrified he might miss a sign.

“You can drive a little faster than this, Morse.”

“Don’t talk to me when I’m driving,” Morse said.

Thursday snorted.

“Well, I don’t want to get ticketed, do I?” he asked. But, then, he accelerated a bit all the same, and his whole face seemed to relax. "Actually, you can talk to me. Just be sure you speak English."

Thursday rolled his eyes. "Wasn’t planning on speaking Hindi, was I?" 

Morse scowled. 

"So what do you want to talk about?" Thursday asked. 

Morse's expression suddenly brightened. "Have you seen Mr. Bright’s new film short?" he asked. 

 

*********

A quick stop by the bursar’s office revealed that Larry Humbolt, the owner of the cut and shut car, was a colleague of Adam Drake’s and that he could be found at the observatory.

Striding up the marbled steps, with Morse by his side, up to the domed white building, massive against the cloudless July sky, Thursday found himself changing his mind.

It was nice, having a piece of the good old days back again. 

 

**********.

And with Drake's colleagues, Dr. Humbolt and Dr. Wingqvist, Morse did quite well. But then, he always was in his element, at the colleges, whether he wanted to admit it or no. 

 

"How was it that Adam Drake was driving your car, Dr. Humbolt?"  Morse asked crisply, notebook in hand. 

"We were at a party, at Dr. Wingqvist’s. Adam’s car wouldn’t start, apparently. He found me in the garden and asked if he could borrow mine."

Morse nodded and turned to Dr. Wingqvist. "Then, presumably the vehicle is still at your house, Dr. Wingqvist?” he asked.

"Yes, I thought Adam night send a mechanic by this morning, but no one came," the don said. 

 

"There was a young woman found at the scene of the crash for whom we don’t have a name. I must warn you— it’s a post-mortem photograph—but can you confirm that this is who Professor Drake was with?" Morse asked, flashing the photo. 

Dr. Wingqvist took the photo tentatively. "Yes, I believe that’s her, but I’ve a terrible memory for names. Adam’s girls never really hung around long enough to make it worthwhile learning their names, you see."

"Bit of a ladies’ man, was he?" Thursday asked. 

Dr. Wingqvist shrugged. "Making up for lost time, perhaps. Adam was a mathematical child prodigy. Entered Oxford at 12. Named Copernican Chair at 23."

 

"And how would you describe Professor Drake’s temperament?" Morse asked.

"Quite highly strung. He could fly off the handle," Dr. Wingqvist said. 

Morse raised his eyebrows at that. "Violently?"

"He had a temper," Dr. Humbolt conceded. 

 

"How did they seem the night of the party?" Morse asked, sharply.  "Any harsh words between them?"

"No," Dr. Wingqvist said. Then he turned to his colleague. "You?"

"I can’t say . . . as I noticed . . . anything," Dr. Humbolt said. 

 

Well, the lad had done all right. They were back in motion, back on the same wavelength. 

It only took one glance into Morse's face to see that he utterly agreed with him. 

 

Humboldt and Winqqvist were presenting them with a closed front.

**************

Adam Drake’s car was right in front of the Wingqvists showy modern house, just where Dr. Wingqvist had said it would be.

Morse went over to the car right away, to try the keys. 

 

“They don’t fit this car, either,” Morse said, his voice rising in frustration.

"Huh," Thursday said. 

This reply was perceived as too lackadaisical, evidently, because Morse snapped,  "Well, if they aren’t his, whose are they?" 

He shook his head a bit angrily, sending his tamed hair spiraling. And that seemed a sign somehow, as sure as the packet of crisps or their stripped down Jag, that this—this trying to ressurrect the past—was a terrible idea, would prove to be a terrible mistake.

Morse huffed with impatience and grabbed a pamphlet he found in the back of the car—grabbed it, looked at it, and shoved it inside his notebook. Then, he reached for a psychedelic print summer coat strewn across the seat and began going through its pockets.

He pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "It's a pay slip," he announced. "Christine Chase.  Heaviside Studios."

He looked sharply at the front door of the house and turned to it without waiting for Thursday to follow.

A maid answered after he rang the bell, and Thursday scurried up the steps in Morse's wake, to show her his warrant card. 

****************

"The police ma’am," Mrs. Trellis, the sour-faced day maid, said, introducing them to Mrs. Wingqvist. 

And, in about two seconds, Thursday realized just why Mrs Trellis looked to be one of the most joyless people he had ever met. He found himself full of sympathy for the older woman, who was coolly bid by her employer to go and pick her hair out of the shower drain. 

 

Morse looked faintly nauseated. 

Thursday waited to see if Morse might take over; he had handled himself professionally at the observatory, and Thursday was keen to give him another chance. But instead, Morse seemed distracted, looking dazedly out the window. 

Thursday frowned, trying to catch his eye. What was he looking for out in the garden?

 

"You spoke to my husband, I believe. About Adam," Mrs. Wingqvist said, with a bored, uppercrust drawl.

 

So, her husband had called ahead to warn her, then. 

 

"That’s right madam," Thursday said. "There was a young woman at the scene of the crash that we are trying to identify, presumably the girl that Drake was here with last night. Christine Chase, would that be right?" 

"Yes, I think that was it," she said. 

"How did they seem together?

"They kept to themselves pretty much. I think she found us all rather dry," she said. 

 

 Morse huffed a rueful laugh at that. Thursday cut him a look, and he went back to looking out the window.

 

"Your husband said they left around one o’clock," Thursday said. "Would that be right?" 

"If that’s what Elliot said," she qualified. 

 

Careful, then. Oh, they were so careful.

 

"I’m afraid I didn’t see them go," she said. "You know what parties are like. People just slip away."

 

At those words, Morse looked at him, his wide blue eyes looking blown, just like they had that day at Maplewick Hall. 

 

 

What had Morse in such a stew?

Well, of course, that had to be it. Tight little circle of Oxford friends, posh parties and secrets and murder . . .

He had come full circle. It was his old set all over again.

“People just _slip away_?” Morse asked incredulously, as soon as they got back into the car. “They know something. They all know something. I don’t think I ever met such appalling people." He laughed wildly. "I'm sure she did find them very dry. As dry as old, withered fruit peels, all the juice long since leeched out." 

“I quite thought . . ." Thursday began. 

“What?” Morse asked hotly.

“I was thinking that they might remind you of your old set.”

 _“My_ old set?” Morse said, with just the faintest edge of hysteria to his voice. “No. I wouldn't say so. We were never just like this. Just the opposite I would say.”

 

Morse threw the car into reverse and began backing out along the long drive.

 

“I mean, they were appalling, I know. We were. We were appalling. But not like this. Never like this. If we had a flaw, it was that we felt too much . . . these people don’t seem to feel at all. It’s all so . . . ” he paused and shuddered. “It’s so clinical. They’re like automatons. One might think they even chose their lovers at random. Just by the luck of some draw." 

 

Thursday thought it over, and found he understood, what it was the lad meant.

 

Susan Winter had been a cool, commanding, imperious blonde, much like Natalie Wingqvist. But, wheras Mrs. Wingqvist had seemed a bit dazed—almost as if she was on some sort of tranquilizers—airily bidding her maid to go and clear out her shower drain, Susan Winter, at that first interview, had been sharp and fierce in her replies. She had in fact, been questioning him as much as he her.

 _“Hmmm. There was quite a lot about you in the papers a few months ago. I must say, it was all quite extraordinary,” she said. “A bit difficult to follow. More of an_ opera plot _than anything that happens in life.”_

_“Have you seen him? My former fiancé? Then you can tell him from me to go to hell.”_

 

At the party in Oxfordshire, right before he released Morse and put the gun to his temple, what was it that Henry Winter has said?

 “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all you heart.”

 

 

And it was true: the weeping, the shouting, the quarrelling—everything that set did, they did— for good or ill— with all of their hearts. Even last January, all of those years later, all it took was a handful of letters containing quotes from a Renaissance poet to send them all flying off the handle.

The only way that set had been able to keep a button on a murder for ten years was because no one had come looking. Once Edmund Corcoran tipped the barrel, the group exploded, and the whole sordid thing unraveled all on its own.

 

But with this set, who knew?  They seemed capable of keeping up the front for as long as it took.

 

Morse was still shaking his head in disbelief. “There’s something more to it than this. They’re hiding something, I know. I may not look like me,” he said. “But at least I look like somebody. Honestly, do these people look like themselves, would you say?”

***********

Thursday was torn: there was a part of him that wanted to take Morse right back to the station. " _I may not look like me?"_ But Heaviside Studios was only a few blocks away, and, there, they might finally get some definite confirmation of the girl's identity.

And, sure enough Jeff Slayton, the manager, and his sister Hildy Slatyon, who helped out with the business side of things, finally, unequivocally laid the question to rest. 

 

Christine Chase, it transpired had been Jeff Slayton's personal assistant. Adam Drake had a hand in the studio’s work as well, coming in as “scientific advisor,” on one of the studio’s top shows, something for the kiddies, called “Moon Rangers.”

 

Once they went back into the production room, Morse clammed up and turned everything over to him again. Thursday wasn’t sure if it was because he was keen to stay as far away from the marionettes as possible—he seemed to be casting them a wary eye—or because, to Morse’s chagrin, everything that everyone there had to say—both the Slaytons and Eric and Marilyn Gidby, who worked the marionettes— fit the picture that Box had painted.

Adam Drake was critical, he always looking down at you, always criticizing. He was always banging on about some sort of course he was taking, he was full of himself. He was a bit of a bully. He never lost the chance to make you feel small.

Christine Chase was sweet, she was a lovely girl, she was quite shy. She was afraid of him.

It all fit, just as Box had said.

A timid girl, an aggressive man. He turns violent. End of story.

**********

“So,” Box said, “They leave this party. Park up somewhere presumably. She ends up dead and he does for himself by crashing the car. You’ll be all right, letting her parents know?” Box asked, nodding to Thursday.

 

Thursday began to nod, to answer in the affirmative. He knew by now that condolences were not Box's cup of tea. 

 

But before Thursday could reply, Morse cut in.  “Let them know what, exactly?”  he said. “We still don’t know what happened.”

“It’s about what you can prove, you know that,” Thursday said, keeping his voice to a calm rumble. “Whatever Drake did, he’s past justice now.”

“But whose car keys are in his pocket? If they aren’t his and they aren’t hers, whose are they?” Morse said.  

“Car keys? That’s what you’re sticking on?” Thursday asked. 

“If it were my daughter lost in suspicious circumstances, I’d want more than an open verdict, wouldn’t you? And where are those books, anyway? That’s the sort of thing I thought I was brought on for, I would have thought.”

“Would you let it drop about those books?” Box said.

“Well, where are they?” Morse asked. 

“They’ve been catalogued,” Box said. “They’re in evidence.”

“But I need to see them,” Morse protested. He sighed. "I'll just have to go and get them.”

 

Thursday flinched. He had heard Morse say much the same before, when they were watching football on the telly, and he was asking about wide receivers.

 

“It’s over, Morse. It’s the guv’nors call,” Thursday said.

“He’s not my guv’nor,” Morse said. “I was hired as an independent consultant.”

He spun on his heel and stormed out, the waves of his hair, pushed so carefully back that morning, flying as he went, like the strands of an underwater plant.

"You be sure to check things out properly," Thursday called after him, angrily, impotently. "And mind that you return them when you're done." 

But Morse did not turn around. 

 

Box just shrugged as if Morse wasn’t much worth his time. “I shouldn't worry. Probably be right as rain once he’s had a reload,” he said. “I think that’s the first time I’ve had a conversation with him without my eyes watering up from the fumes.”

Thursday scowled and turned away.

Later, it would feel like another step toward betrayal.

But what could he say?

After all, what DCI Box had said was most probably true.

*****

Thursday was just leaving the station when he ran into Mr. Bright, looking, if possible, more morose than he felt. He looked bereft, somehow, without his uniform shining with brass buttons. 

"What brings you here, sir?" Thursday asked.

"Thursday," Mr. Bright said, by way of greeting. "Just dropping off these reports. Public Safety Advisory board, you know." 

“Ah,” Thursday said. "All is well, I hope?" 

But Mr. Bright shook his head, gently. “It’s a sobering thing to discover so late in life that one is considered a fool." 

“Not you, sir.”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Bright insisted. “I’m under no illusion. I’m a figure of ridicule to be openly mocked and scorned. This pelican is an albatross around my neck.”

Thrusday frowned. “This campaign of yours—you’ll probably never know how many lives you’ve saved. Hundreds, maybe thousands by the time it’s done.”  

It hurt, seeing the Chief Superintendent, once so determined, so melancholy. 

The wistful air on his face prompted Thursday to add, “And besides, you’ve made yourself quite a devoted fan.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Bright asked.

“Morse. Your spot was all he could talk about on the drive over to the observatory today. Something about . . . art house pacing, low budget realism and a poignant metaphor for life?”

Mr. Bright snorted at that, but his lips twitched in just the faintest hint of a smile.

“Good heavens,” he said.

******************

Endeavour shuffled his head, trying to find a cooler spot on the pillow. The windows were thrown open to catch any hope of a summer breeze, but it was a warm night, and the air felt heavy and still.

And Bix . . . why did Bix always have to sleep so . . . so ostentatiously?

Passages from the two books swam before Endeavour's eyes, but, try as he might, he could not see the connection.

 

_“With sparkling surface eyes we ply the ball; it is in truth a most contagious game, “hiding the skeleton” shall be its name; such play as this the devils might appall!”_

 

“ _Each of us can have anything, anything we want. But we often deny ourselves, because we think we don’t deserve it.”_

 

_“Could I hurt her? Heaven and hell, I could hurt her cruelly!”_

  

And what happened, Christine? Did you feel the blow, and wake up somewhere else, wondering what had happened to you while you were gone?

Or did you never wake up at all?

 

No one but you will ever know.

 

Thursday was right. It was a dead end.

Thursday was right not to believe in him.

But no, that couldn’t be right. Thursday must still have faith in him. For how else to explain why he would allow Endeavour to come along with him to the mortuary?

It was cold there; Endeavour had quite forgotten that—quite forgotten how the scent of antiseptic stung in his nose.

 

“How’s the case going, Inspector?” Max said.

Thursday shook his head. “It just doesn’t add up. Those car keys? If they aren’t his and they aren’t hers, whose are they?”

“That’s just what I said!” Endeavour cried. But Thursday continued on, pretending as if he hadn’t even heard him.

“And what of those books? Why would a couple, fresh in the flush of youth, be reading ‘Modern Love’ on a night out? It’s just not on.”

“That’s what I said,” Endeavour said again.

 

“I could use some help on this case,” Thursday sighed. “Trouble is, I’m light one bagman."

“What am _I_ here for?” Endeavour asked, outraged.

“Be glad of a bagman from the pool, if you’ve got one spare, doctor,” Thursday said.

“All spoken for, Inspector,” Max said.  

“What about number nine?” Thursday asked, nodding toward a mortuary slab covered in a sheet. “What’s wrong with him?”

Max shrugged. “Nothing. He’s just had his day, that’s all. We’ve got him down for scraps and spares.”

And Max pulled back the sheet, and it was him, he was there--it was DC Morse, lying as white and as still as death, and pieces of him were . . .

And then someone was screaming.

 


	4. "You're Having Tea With A Friend"

The cicadas were buzzing in the black velvet night, the lightning bugs blinking lazily through the trees, and his great-uncle was in a chair on the front porch, droning on about the Moon-Eyed People, people who roamed about in the darkness, because they saw better at night.

 

And then someone was screaming.

 

Bixby bolted upright in bed, unsure as to whether or not he had been dreaming.

He whisked around to find Endeavour sitting up next to him, his pale, narrow hands covering his mouth and nose, so that only his wide blue eyes were visible over them.

“Deavour?” Bix asked.

Endeavour’s gaze swerved toward him, but he said nothing.

“Are you all right?” Bix asked.

Endeavour nodded.

“What? Bad dream, then?”

Endeavour nodded again.

“Well, you certainly scared the life out of me, old man,” Bixby said, with a low laugh.

Endeavour lowered his hands so that the tips of his fingers were framing his jaw.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, his northern accent lolling a little more strongly than usual on the word.

“’T’s all right,” Bixby said. He looked at him tentatively, before adding, “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

Endeavour shook his head.

Then Endeavour’s shoulders seemed to sag, and he lowered his hands the rest of the way, dropping them into his lap. 

“Bix?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could . . . Oh, never mind.”

“Do you think we could what?” Bixby prompted.

“I don’t want to ask. You’ll never let me live it down, if I do.”

Bixby leaned back against the pillows, his arm resting comfortably over his head. “No, I won’t.”

“Yes,” Endeavour said. “I think that you will.”

“Consider this your one time free pass,” Bix said. “Ask away and I promise I won’t say a word, old man.”

Endeavour looked at him, his face full of mistrust. “It sounds a bit awful.”

“Well. Now you have to tell me. My imagination will be running wild otherwise.”

Endeavour scowled. “It’s nothing like _that_.”

“Then what? I’m tottering on the edge of my seat.”

Endeavour cut him a look—because, in fact, he was just the opposite: he was sprawling in bed, stretched out as if he had all the time in the world.

Endeavour took a steadying breath and ventured, “Do you think we could, I mean, would you . . . would you buy me a car?”

Bixby threw back his head and laughed.

“But I hardly know you,” he said, in Endeavour’s rolling accent, paraphrasing what Endeavour had said out on Lake Silence, so many years ago.

Endeavour sighed.

 *********

“I’m sorry,” Mac said. “I don’t have the authority to sell any of these cars to the public. These are all police issue vehicles.”

“But surely, you can understand,” Bixby said. “You’re a man who knows cars; you must see what a sacrilege it is, stripping down a classic like that.”

“Thames Valley policy. Once they’ve got a certain number of miles on them, they’re ruled inefficient, and they go for scraps and spares.”

“I don’t think you understand, old man. I’m telling you to name your price.”

Mac frowned. “I’m not authorized to name a price, like I said. I don’t have the authority to sell them.”

Bixby took one step closer and flashed a smile. Then he lowered his voice, whispering conspiratorially. “I’m not asking _Thames_ _Valley_ to name its price; I’m asking _you_ , old man. Name your price.”

Mac blinked in confusion.

“Come now. You can’t tell me anyone would notice if the old girl just disappeared off the lot—you’ve got it under a tarp at the back of the gara. . . “

“Bix,” Endeavour said.

“Yes?”

“Just... it’s all right,” Endeavour said.

Bix laughed a low rippling laugh. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding, Endeavour. This is how deals are made.”

But Endeavour shook his head. “No. It’s all right. Really. I don’t want to get any one into trouble. It’s all right. It’s just the way it goes.”

“I understand,” Mac nodded. “I get a bit sentimental about some of these old girls myself. And listen. I’m glad you came by. I was getting ready to call up to the station. You know that car you and Fred were asking about the other day?”

“The cut and shut?” Endeavour asked.  

“Yeah, that’s the one. The brakes had been bled. There’s not a drop of fluid in them or in the reservoir.”

Endeavour frowned and pulled his notebook from his satchel. “And that couldn’t have happened at the crash?”

“No,” Mac said. “This was sabotage.”

********

DCI Box sighed heavily, as if personally put out by this revelation. “So. So much for open and shut.”

“That was your assessment, not mine. I said I thought we should get to the bottom of it,” Endeavour said.

He felt Thursday stiffen, as if he wished he were anywhere other than beside him.

 

Endeavour felt tempted to give that warrant card right back to him.

 ***********

And the wheels turn round and round, like the carousel at the carnival, like a moon of Saturn revolving through rings of ice, and. . .

The brakes were bled on the car.

That meant that the intended victim may well have been Isobel Humbolt; it was she who had been, of late, the car’s primary driver.

 _Heaven_ _and_ _hell_ , _I_ _could_ _hurt_ _her_ _cruelly_?

Isobel or Christine?

 

How many people did this set have it in for, exactly?

 

Because the fact that the brakes had been bled also meant that Adam Drake could not have stopped anywhere between the party and the point where he crashed in the woods.

Christine Chase was killed at the party, then—she was dead before her body was put into the car.

The Humbolts seemed to be horrified by the ramifications of it all. But were they? Or was it all just a game?

From the way this little circle spoke, it was difficult to tell.

 

“It was an academic’s wine and cheese, not the masque of the red death,” Isobel Humbolt said.

“Really, I think we would have noticed if Adam had been carrying a dead girl around at the party,” Larry Humbolt said.

 

What they needed was a list of all the guests and the makes and models of their cars—that way, they could find out to whom those keys belonged.

Those keys.

They were the key to unlocking who else was involved in this sordid little drama.

They just needed to keep at it.

 

“Right, I’m off,” Thursday said.  

“ _What_?” Endeavour asked. They still had so much to talk over. “I thought, well. . . . I thought we might go for a pint.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Thursday said, reaching for his coat. “Not much company these days.”

“Fine,” Endeavour said.

He certainly wasn’t going to push in, if he was off with Box.

Endeavour had other matters to attend to.

 

Whose keys were they?

Who were they protecting?

Henry had protected them for all of those years. Henry had died protecting them, like an old Roman patriarch, careful of his and his family’s honor.

 

But that book Endeavour had found—it was an entirely different philosophy this set followed, wasn’t it? Take what you want. Put yourself at the center.

 

Their Henry is not protecting them; they are protecting their Henry.

 

Who is their Henry?  

Endeavour flipped open his notebook and pulled out the pamphlet he had found at the Wingqvists, the one that lay on the back seat of Adam Drake’s car.

********

 

Endeavour leaned his bicycle against the single tree that shaded the brick house and slowly walked up the steps, checking the name on a plaque on the building before knocking on the door.

A thin, dark man answered.

“I’d like to speak to someone about Professor Adam Drake,” Endeavour said. “I believe he was an attendee at some course run here, Mr....?”

“Gabriel Van Horne,” the man supplied, with a nod. Then he stepped back, ushering him inside. 

Inside, all was white—so white it was not like looking at the earth, but rather at the sun. And the furniture was oddly shaped, almost disturbingly so. It was like walking into a strange dream, like walking into the end of that awful movie Bix had taken him to see, where the man watches himself grow older and older in a white room before turning into a some sort of giant space embryo.

Endeavour shook his head slightly to cast off the memory.

“What is you do here, Mr Van Horne?” he asked.

“We help people,” the man said simply.

Every alarm bell Endeavour had sounded off at those three words. _We_ _help_ _people_. There was a sentence with one hundred connotations.

“Help them with what?” Endeavour asked.

 

And then, someone was screaming.

 

And then another. And then a chorus of screams. Endeavour’s mind snapped to the memory the real Dr Daniel Cronyn, held on a bed full of blood stains, in a house so far from the road that no one could hear his screams.

 

What sort of terrible place had he stumbled upon?

 

Endeavour raced to follow the sound.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Van Horne bleated. “You just can’t go wander about the place.”

 

He certainly could. He pulled open a door.

There were fifteen people all in a room, all in white, screaming. And not just screaming. Flapping their arms, flailing around like lunatics, like marionettes on loose strings, tossing their heads around so that the women’s long hair lashed out into the air.

 

Endeavour began to shout “Run!” when he realized, the people weren’t shouting with terror. They were shouting just for the hell of it.

And why? What good did it do?

That’s just the way it goes.

 

It was unnerving.

“Stop it!” Endeavour commanded. “Stop this at once!”

The people all stopped their screaming and looked at him.

There. They were all right. They just needed a firm hand.

Mr. Van Horne came up behind him.

“Just take it down to a level two,” he said, and then he closed the door.

 

“What’s all that?” Endeavour asked.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

Endeavour thought rather the opposite.

“Shall we?” the man asked, gesturing to a white chair that sat before a white piece of furniture that looked more like a white plastic kidney than a desk.

 

If Endeavour hadn’t come here of his own accord, he would have thought this was some sort of trick or trap.

He should have told Bix where he was going.

 

 

“What do you want?” the man asked, laying a stress on each syllable in an odd sort of way.

“Straight answers, quickly given,” Endeavour said, at once.

“I was speaking philosophically. What do you want. In life. What is it that you _want_?

The most truthful answer was still the first.

“I want answers,” Endeavour repeated.

“Ah. Answers. We all want answers. We can give those, too. Do you think you’re the first celebrity we’ve had here?”

 

Endeavour took a step back.

 

“Oh yes, I know who you are. We’ve had the gamut here, come to take what we have to offer—artists and poets and writers and scientists. People like you, people who are ready for the next step.”

“To see beyond the door?” Endeavour asked, contempt clear in his voice.

“Something like that.”

Gabriel Van Horne paused to consider him, before continuing. “An individual cannot realize his or her true potential while still adhering to an illusory narrative. Now as a poet, you’ll agree that most social interactions are essentially dishonest.”

 

Endeavour didn’t answer. What was honest? Dishonest, exactly? Were people necessarily exclusively one or the other?

 

“Let us consider the cake paradox. You’re having tea with a friend.”

Endeavour snorted at that. “Unlikely, but go on.”

“There are two cakes left on the plate, there’s a large one of a kind you very much like, and there’s a smaller, dry looking one. Which one do you choose?” Van Horne asked, his voice fading out into a languid, sinister whisper.

“The small one,” Endeavour said at once. “But that’s not the point.”

“It’s the whole point. Why deny yourself? To what end?”

 

And, there it was. 

Gabriel Van Horne was their Henry. And the opposite of their Henry, all at once. 

He was the one they would bustle to protect, even if they brought suspicion on themselves in the process. 

 

“Adam Drake took your course, is that right?” Endeavour asked. 

“He was undergoing treatment,” Mr. Van Horne said.

“And what did it cost, this course?”

Mr Van Horne spread wide his hands. “What price freedom?”

 

Finally, a simple question. Freedom.  Freedom was free… he certainly wasn’t planning on getting locked up in this place.

He nodded politely, backing out towards the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Van Horne,” Endeavour said.

 

Once he was safely outside, back under the spreading tree, he felt calmer, the wheels slowed, and he knew it, instinctively. 

He walked up to the car parked in the closest, most convenient spot in the car park. It was bound to be Van Horne's, after all.

_Why deny yourself?_

 

Endeavour tried the key that he held in his pocket— the one, strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to have.

And it fit the lock.

 

And then, Endeavour got on his bicycle and rode away from all of it, from the clinical white rooms, from the screaming, from the whole sinister, circling web of it, from a world where selfishness, perhaps even cruelty, was dressed up and called honesty.

It was like a mad house, he thought, pumping the pedals in quick circles. People who went into a place like that of their own free will, they must be mad.

He wished he could get that unassuming-looking brick house out of his mind. He wished he had someone to tell about what he had seen. But who? He could hardly tell Thursday, who even now would be laughing over a pint with Box, laughing a laugh Endeavour would not even recognize as his.

 

You’re having tea with a friend.

Unlikely, but ...

Or maybe not.

********

Max pulled his Morris up to the front of the house, surprised to see a green bicycle out front, leaning against a tree.

The front door was still locked--and, as he went through the house, he saw no sign of Morse. He must have taken the hint then and used the garden gate.

Max went out the back door to find Morse there in the garden, leaning back in a white wicker chair, looking drawn and careworn, basking his face in the sun.

“Morse?”

His eyes slid open.

“Oh, hello,” he said, his brow furrowing with worry. “Is it all right? You said that it would be.”

“Yes, I was just surprised, that’s all,” Max said.

The fellow looked positively knackered.

“Could I offer you something to drink?” he asked, and then because he looked so hopeful, he added, “I’ve a bottle of Glenfiddich I’d been planning to open, as soon as the day was done.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I really could use a drink.”

“Right. Just a moment then.”

 

He went in through the back door, collected a bottle and two glasses and headed back out.

As soon as Max set and filled the glass before him, Morse took it and downed it in one go. Max had been rather afraid that he might.

“This is rather good stuff, Morse,” Max said pointedly. “You really ought to savor it.”

But Morse shook his head. “I’ve just gotten away from the most terrible place. It was absolute bedlam. It was like an asylum for mad people.”

 

Max stilled at this.

 

Morse had his troubles, it was true. And Max couldn’t truthfully say that he didn’t think Morse might do well to receive some sort of medical care—a physical at least, perhaps some monitoring. But it was difficult to believe, given the impassioned speech that that Bixby chap had given him in the Thursdays' hallway last summer, that he would go so far as to try to have Morse committed.

 

“What place is this?” Max asked sharply.  

“Some Institute. An Institute for A Better Life. Adam Drake, the man who died in that car crash went there.”

“Oh. So this was for a case then?” Max qualified.

“Yes, it’s for a case. What did you think I was talking about?”

“Nothing," Max said. 

 

“It was like hell,” Morse said. “I was speaking to the director only for a few minutes, when the place was absolutely ringing with shrieking and crying and screaming. I thought people were being held there, tortured. But when I opened the door I found it was some sort of game. The screaming was meant to be ‘cathartic,’ evidently.” He shuddered. “It certainly didn’t seem very cathartic to me.”

“The director said it was all about ‘helping people,’” he added. “Helping people to know what they want so that might take what they want. That seems to be the philosophy of the place in a nutshell: If you want it, take it.”

He frowned, his voice growing plaintive. “I don’t think that people need more help to be egotistical, do you?”

Max took a sip of Scotch. “No. I can’t say that I do.”

“Neither do I," Morse said.  "I quite thought they might do a fine enough job of that all on their own.”  

 

“So, did it shed some light on anything, on the case?” Max asked. “I saw Strange the other day. He said you were consulting, over at Castle Gate, working with Thursday.”

“No, I’m not. Not really. I think that’s finally over now.”

“What do you mean?” Max asked

“Thursday. He’s been . . . on the fence about me. . . for . . well, years now, really. I understand. I know there’s a part of him that wants to think that nothing’s changed. He . . .  he gave me my warrant card back.”

“Morse. . .”

“I’m only telling you because I know you won’t tell anyone else,” Morse cut in.

Max winced; it wasn’t such a great honor, being the keeper of other people’s secrets. Sometimes he felt that he was so often let into the circle because the secret bearer knew how very alone he was; that he was safe because he didn’t _have_ any one else to tell, even if he was so inclined.

But perhaps such was not the case with Morse; he was looking at him worriedly, as if he feared he had misstepped.

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burdened you with that. I hope you don’t feel compromised. It’s just a card. No one knows that it isn’t . . . buried away with . . . with everything else. It’s not as if I’m going to use it at all, let alone for anything untoward,” Morse said in a rush.

“It’s all right, Morse.” Max said, bracingly. “I think I can overcome my shock.”

 

Because it was a bit surprising that Thursday would do such a thing—and even more stunning was the realization that he must, in turn, have gotten the thing fron Mr. Bright.

“It’s just . . . at the time, he said he wanted to give it back because I had been such a help. With the Dawkins and Reece cases. But now. . . now I think . . . it was a handshake, too.”

“A handshake?”

“‘ _Handshakes are for goodbyes, Morse._ ’ That’s what Thursday says. And that’s what the warrant card was. A sort of goodbye. _‘It’s over.’_ Because, even though I did help in some ways, I made a hash of things, too.”

Morse took a deep breath and sighed. “I wasn’t there long enough that he can give me a watch, so . . . ‘Here’s a souvenir. Thanks for playing. Now be on your way. Mind how you go.’  Can I . . . Can I have another?”

Max hesitated, but then he poured a shot into Morse’s glass.

 

“I don’t think he meant it like that,” Max said.

“He does,” Morse insisted. “And he’s right,” he added, his voice cracking. “Because the picture. On the warrant card. It doesn’t even look like me.”  

He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and laughed ruefully.

“But it’s not fair. He doesn’t look the same, either. He’s just some shell. I don’t know who he is,” Morse said, screwing himself up in indignation. “‘Yes sir,’ ‘no sir’ to a man like _that_.”

 

Max found that he couldn’t disagree with Morse there. Once a vigorous bull of a man, with thoughtful dark eyes but fists like hammers, Thursday looked gray and pinched and weary of late, almost shrunken, as if he had aged ten years all in one, as if he was beyond caring. Beyond hope, even.

And now, Morse was looking much the same, utterly spent, sweat curling the hair at his temples, his eyes shining and weary, his face stained slightly pink.

 

What drove Morse to keep coming back to Oxford? It was as if he had some sort of unfinished business here, as if he were a ghost who could not leave his past life, who could not rest.

He looked completely done in. Which left Max to wonder . . .

“Morse, where is this place? This Institute?”

“North Oxford. Why?”

 

Max frowned. That was quite a distance. “Am I to understand that you rode that bicycle all of this way?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said, softly. “Why?”

Max laughed gently. “I understand that you’re not American, but it seems a terribly long way to bike.” 

Morse looked down at his hands and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Then he sighed.

“I had my license revoked,” he said, keeping his gaze lowered to his hands, which were folded tightly in his lap.  

 

Ah.

 

“I see,” Max said.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Morse said. “I just . . . I just got used to driving on the left again, and when we were in France, I . . . well. I got ticketed three times. And so they had to do it. They were very nice about it. But. It’s reckless driving.”

 

Max raised his brows and took a sip of Scotch.

It certainly was. Turning a sharp corner in the wrong lane—he could very well kill someone.

 

“I can get it back if I take a course in Nancy but . . . I thought, at first, that maybe it would be best if I didn’t try,” Morse said. “I think I’ve figured out a trick, though, that helps, but, it’s a moot point anyway.”  He shrugged helplessly. “How am I going to get all the way to from our house to Nancy on a bike?”

“Can’t Bixby drive you?” Max asked.

Morse dropped his head, once again looking at his hands in his lap.  

“You haven’t told him,” Max said.

Morse, still keeping his head down, slowly shook his head.

“Don’t you think you should?” Max asked.

 

“I suppose,” he allowed. Then he seemed to sag. “I suppose I’ve been selfish.” He gave a wild little laugh. “ _Might_ _as_ _well_ _get_ _out_ _while_ _you_ _can._ ”

“That’s not what I meant Morse.”

“I know it isn’t. But it’s true, isn’t it, all the same?  I don’t know. If he wants to . . . but he can’t if he thinks that  . . . Or if he thinks that he can’t because . . . “

 

Max raised his brows as Morse waned more and more incomprehensible.

 

“I just don’t want him to feel sorry for me,” Morse said.

“I don’t think anyone is going to feel sorry for you, Morse,” Max said quietly.

Morse’s wide blue eyes snapped up at that. “No, they shouldn’t,” he said, and here his voice grew strident.  “I mean, I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s more of a chance than Christine Chase ever got.”

 

So that was it, then—or, not all, certainly, but in part. 

 

  _“I was wondering,” Strange asked, “what do you know about head injuries?”_

_“Well, Sergeant, seeing as I did go to medical school, rather a lot. What was it you wanted to know?” DeBryn replied._

_“Are there any long-term effects, say, from too many blows to the head?" Strange asked._

_DeBryn raised his eyebrows. What did this have to do with Finch?_

_But then, DeBryn answered. “The effects of a concussion are typically short-termed, but there can be long-range effects when a second injury is sustained before symptoms of a first are resolved. And in the case of repeated head injuries, that possibility increases. Anxiety, memory loss, mood fluctuations, confusion, early onset dementia. It’s a delightful little list. Is this for yourself, you are asking?”_

_Strange scowled. “It’s nothing to do with me. It’s about a friend.”_

_“I see,” DeBryn said, a bit wryly._

And Morse felt some connection to this girl, this girl he had never met.

 

“As soon as I saw how they were reacting, Box and Jago, I . . .”  Morse continued, taking another draught of Scotch. “I mean, if it had been me, I don’t think anyone would have cared to go looking for the answers, either.”

 

Max nodded in understanding.

Because it had been him, hadn’t it? He had survived, but it couldn’t be said that his life hadn’t been altered.

So, there it was: a piece of the explanation. A confirmation. Or as close to one as Max was ever likely to get.

 

Max, who seldom was without a quick word or pithy remark found he had nothing to say.

But sometimes it’s not what we say that matters.

Sometimes remaining silent is enough.

Max rather hoped that this might be one of those times.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble,” Morse said.  He took a thoughtful sip of Scotch, a slow one this time, as opposed to draining half the glass. 

He looked meditatively out into the garden, where the finches flitted in and out of the shrubbery, and a few lazy butterflies hovered over abundances of purple, heavy-scented flowers, and the greenfly went about their business of devouring the tea roses, the cares of the humans in the garden as far from their minds as the burning out of a distant star.

“How are your roses doing?” Morse asked.

 

************

The envelope sat in the middle of the table. Just waiting. Just sitting there waiting, as DCI Box told the story of his father.  You could hear it in his voice, the hurt, at the way his old man got the shaft, got treated as if he was disposable, like a paper cup.   He understood Box better now. Ronnie was all right.

But still, it felt  . . .off. Perhaps because it was almost a parody of so many afternoons like this, pub visits with Morse.

Whereas Box sat hunched aggressively forward, his dark hair curling over his brow, Morse had always leaned back in his seat, slouchy and sloppy, all ginger hair and lankiness, working through his pint and crossword while Thursday reached for his sandwich.

“Cheese and pickle,” Morse would say.

 

But Morse always had been from some other world. It was Ronnie who had the true measure of things.

 

They were all just cogs in the wheel, weren’t they?

Just cogs.

Wasn’t as if he ever asked for a lot.

Just his Win and four walls and a roof, a home where they might raise their children, keep them safe from that other world, the world in which he spent so much of his waking hours.

If he managed to get the money back, might he get Win back, into the bargain?

What, at this point, did he have to lose?

 

In one deft motion, Thursday threw out his broad, work-worn hand, placed it over the envelope, and swept it into his jacket.

“I knew you were our sort,” Box said.  

 

***************

Bix and Endeavour were walking past the tall windows of the Lamb and Flag when they saw George Fancy and Shirley Trewlove, sitting at a wooden table, waving them in through the glass.

“I don’t know,” Endeavour said. “I don’t want to impose . .  .”

“They’re in a pub. As in public house,” Bix said. “It’s fine.”

“All right," Endeavour conceded. "Just don’t embarrass them like that day we were out punting.”

 

Bixby laughed. Nothing like getting advice on the social graces from Endeavour.

 

They sailed into the pub, to where Fancy and Trewlove sat, smiling over their pints. Trewlove nudged a chair across from them with her foot, as if pushing it back so that one of them might sit.

“Hello, then,” she said. “Pull up a chair." Then, she added, “I didn’t know you were in Britain. What brings you back?”

“Oh,” Endeavour said. “Well, the kids, you know, are enrolled in an English language immersion program this summer. At Oxford. So we thought we’d plan a holiday at the same time. In case they needed anything. It’s their first time abroad.”

“ _Kids_?” Fancy asked, looking at them uncertainly.

Endeavour blinked. “Well, they aren’t _our_ children,” he said. “It’s a brother and sister I used to tutor.”

“Oh,” Fancy said.

Endeavour cast Fancy a furtive glance, as though he feared he might have missed a singularly important point in his lessons on the birds and the bees.

 

Bixby thought this might be a fine time to change the subject.  But Trewlove, ever quick off the mark, beat him to it.

 

“Have you seen Thursday, since you’ve been back?” she asked. “We haven’t seen him at all, since . . .  “

“He’s, busy, I suspect. Busy working with Box. With DCI can’t think outside the Box,” Endeavour said. “The man whose shirt is so tight, it must have cut off the circulation to his brain.”

Bixby rolled his eyes. Endeavour was definitely spun up about something; he was like a windmill, turning and turning in sharp, storm-driven gusts.

 

Every conversation he had of late kept circling back to three topics: His obsession with that PELICON info spot, conjecture as to what was wrong with Thursday, and his complete contempt for Box and his reptilian little sidekick, DS Jago.

 

Bixby prepared again to change the subject, but Endeavour’s comment, it seemed, found a winning audience; for just then, Trewlove’s face grew cold and stern, and even Fancy looked angry.

Well, as angry as Fancy could manage to look.

“We don’t like him, either,” Trewlove said.

“You know him?” Endeavour asked, eager to have his poor opinion of Box confirmed.

“You can say that. We had to work with him. It was a year ago now. He and the sergeant he was with certainly didn’t behave professionally, to say the least,” Trewlove said stiffly.

“Thursday brought the thunder down on them, though,” Fancy said. “‘ _Robbery_. _I’ve_ _shit_ ‘ _em_!’,” he recalled, laughing at the memory.

 

This brought Endeavour back to topic number two.

 

Endeavour snorted. “You should see Thursday now. Now he and Box are best chums.”

 

The heavy pub door creaked open then, and a large man walked into the pub. Fancy and Trewlove craned their necks to look.

“Nope,” Fancy said.

“We thought Strange might stop by,” Trewlove explained.  It’s a quiz night, you know.”

A funny little twitch passed over Endeavour’s face, but he said nothing, only took another sip of ale.  Bixby knew what he was thinking: that Strange at a quiz night would be about as useful as a square wheel.

 

 He could be an awful snob sometimes.

 

Fancy leaned forward and said, in a voice not far above a whisper, “Word is, Sgt. Strange is still poking around about these heroin deaths. And looking for who took those shots and me and at Meehan.”

“They never found the culprit, then?” Endeavour asked. “Not after all of these months?” 

 

Fancy shook his head. "Meehan and I were there for hours—they had us looking through every mug shot in the city, at photos of every yob who ever stole a telly out of the back of a truck. And the line ups! It went on and on. But it was a no go.

“Are you sure? Are you sure weren’t mistaken?” Endeavour asked.

Fancy appeared to give the matter some thought. “Well, he had on a mask. But he was looking right at me. He seemed a bit sharper than the others. Not much, but a bit. I almost thought he sort of following his own agenda. But I know I’d recognize him if I saw him. Mask or no mask.”

“How?” Trewlove asked.

"His eyes. He had hard, narrow, shifty eyes.” Fancy squinted, trying to look menacing, but with his young, carefree face, he succeeeded in looking about as threatening as a cartoon villain. 

“I’ll tell you who has some shifty, narrow little eyes,” Endeavour said.

“Who?” Fancy asked.

“DS Jago,” Endeavour said. “Box’s sidekick.”

 

Bixby took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, yes,” he intoned. “You hate them and they stole Thursday.”

Endeavour pulled himself up out of his normal slouch, looking affronted. “They didn’t _steal_ Thursday.”

Then, he looked uncertain for a moment. “Well, yes," he said, finally. "I suppose they did.”

 

*******

Once they were out on the sidewalk, walking through the warm, dark night, lit with patches of light from street lamps and pub widows, Endeavour confided, “I’m worried about Fancy.”

“Hmmmm,” Bixby agreed. “I can’t say I thought that was very wise, either.”

“Can’t say _what_ was wise?” Endeavour asked, confused.

“For him to go about boasting that he would be able to recognize the man who shot him. You don’t think that’s rather encouraging whoever it might be to come back and finish the job?”

Endeavour scowled. “He was only saying that to us. It’s not as if he’s going about telling criminals such a thing.”

“But maybe the person who shot him wasn’t a criminal.”

“Of course he must have been. Someone with that Ames lot. Who else would take a shot at a police officer—the gas meter man?” Endeavour asked. 

“But he’s been through all of those photos, hasn’t he?" Bixby asked. "And hasn't recognized anyone. Better think outside the Box, Endeavour Box." 

 

Endeavour scowled at being called such a name, but then he sighed. "You know, you're right." 

"What's that?" Bixby asked. 

"I said you're right," Endeavour said.

"Wait, what was that you said?" 

 

Endeavour stopped short on the sidewalk, so that Bixby took a few steps without realizing he'd lost him. When he stopped and turned, Endeavour was watching him uncertainly. Then he laughed that laugh that sounded like air being let out of a balloon. 

"Are you having one on me?" he asked.

“Maybe.”

"All right," Endeavour said. "That's fair enough." 

 

"So what were you going to say? Why are you worried about Fancy, if it's not that?” Bix asked.

 

Endeavour hesitated, looking pained. 

"Well, it's just . . . he looked a bit perplexed when I said . . . I mean, he does know that . . . well." 

 

Oh, Lord. This? This was too easy. 

 

“Know what?” Bix asked, his face all innocence.

"Well, that it would be rather _unlikely,_ shall we say, that we'd have any children." 

Bixby feigned an expression of mild surprise. "Is it?" 

 

Endeavour looked at him, utterly bewildered. 

 

"I don't know," Bixby continued, smoothly. "I wouldn't rule it out. I've always been told that some of the things I can pull off are a bit like magic." 

He thought he’d get another laugh out of Endeavour, but instead, he now looked as if he had his concerns about Bixby as well. 

 

Oh, well. 

I'm sorry, Endeavour. 

But you did rather walk into that one, old man.

 

Bixby was just deciding how he might save the jest, when Endeavour’s bewildered face suddenly froze, turned impassive, as he stopped short before the window of a brightly-lit pub. 

Bixby stopped to look as well, following his gaze.

Thursday was there, at a large table, with a group of about six or seven men, their faces shining with drink and laughing raucously. Bix had never seen the grim but benevolent, dependable old patriarch--a man that Bixby had come to view as a de facto father-in-law—laugh in such a way--there was something conspiratorial, something harsh, something discordant about it. 

From the stricken look on Endeavour's face, it was clear he thought the same. 

 

"Oh, my God," Bixby murmured against Endeavour's ear. "They stole Thursday."

  
 

 


	5. "We All Know You're Smart"

 

Bixby stepped amongst the open stock pages, considering how the numbers rose and fell, making note of how each series followed its own ebb and flow. It was all about watching for the patterns.  

He had moved his newspapers into the living room at the back of the house for privacy—he’d been receiving quite a few visitors into his study of late, and, although they all seemed to be capable men and otherwise trustworthy, they really didn’t have the manners of the French—they always seemed to be scrutinizing the papers, as if trying to catch on to his methods.

No, his stock pages were much safer back here, away from the more public parts of the house.

 

There was only one downswing.

 

Bix was just making his final choices, organizing the timing of each purchase and sale in his mind, when Endeavour rushed into the room, glancing up at the clock on the wall as he went.

 

“I almost missed it,” he said.

 

Bixby couldn’t imagine what a shame that would be. It had gotten to the point where he could hear that ice cream truck bell in his sleep.

 

Endeavour clicked on the television, and Bixby prepared to be told for the forty-seventh time that Endeavour used to work with the “actor” who appeared in the spot. That he actually once—hold onto your hats, now—wrote his reports.

 

“You remember him, don’t you? We went to his house, on the Dawkins case,” Endeavour said.

Yes, Bixby remembered. That gin really was pretty good. 

 

Bixby waited for the sound of the tinkling bell. But instead, there was a crescendo of a triumphant symphony and a soaring shot of a skyscraper.

“What’s this rot?” Endeavour cried.

Instead of Mr. Bright’s informational spot, it was a political ad for that complete tosser, Clive Burkitt.

There he was, with that wide, painful politician’s smile, boasting of one of last year’s projects, Cranmer House.

 

“A stunning feat of modern engineering, changing the Oxford skyline forever!” proclaimed the voiceover.

 

Bixby snorted. The ugly concrete rectangle certainly _had_ changed the Oxford skyline forever—interrupting the gentle warble of steeples and gothic towers with one vulgar exclamation point.  

 

Bixby quite detested Burkitt. He knew the plans his architect had drawn up for the Oxford planning and housing department’s latest project were far superior to the ones that Burkitt had selected. It all came down to money, of course.

But why? It might seem more practical in the short run, but Bixby knew his plans offered more bang for the buck. . . .

Or, ought he to say more posh for the pound?

 

At any rate, his design certainly would not be a brutal concrete block shoving its way into a skyline of softness and sculpture. _And_ it would afford the residents much more living space, homes that were not merely purely functional, but also possessing of a hint of style.

“You just don’t understand these people,” Burkitt had told him. “They wouldn’t appreciate such flourishes. And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

_Beggars can’t be choosers._

 

What an awful saying, really.

 

The men from the CDC were purported to be their salvation, promising an end to malaria in the American South by 1952. It would be utterly extinct throughout the region, they said. It would not claim another life.

Joss had been walking home from Lafayette High when he came across three men gathered down at the creek, standing amidst the cattails and jewel-toned dragonflies, taking water samples. They were rumored to be from Atlanta, but some in town had claimed that, no, they had come all the way from Washington, DC. Joss already had plans to see those cities one day for himself, those and ones even further beyond. Already, he had a worn paperback copy of _The Great Gatsby_ in his back pocket, showing him just how it could be done.

Curious, Joss had edged a bit closer. One man lifted a beaker of water and scowled. “What’s wrong with these dumb crackers?” he asked. “If they had an ounce of sense, they’d move a bit upcountry. Why do they insist on trying to farm a marsh?” 

Joss felt as if he’d been slapped. Because, of course, they knew. But what other choice did they have?  The same families who owned the best land had held onto it for generations. And everyone else just got what was left.

That was just how it goes.

One of the other men turned and caught sight of him standing there. Joss had thought—just for a moment—that the man might look sheepish, having seen him there, knowing he had overheard. But, instead, he simply shrugged and said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

 

But what sense did that make?  Isn’t that just what it means to be human: to have a will, to have a choice, to have the chance to strive to make one’s own way, to find one's own happiness? 

Of course, beggars can be choosers.  To be human _is_ to be a chooser —just by definition, isn’t it?

 

As the camera panned to a shot of Burkitt shaking hands with a young mother, the plastic smile still fierce on his face, Bixby found himself seething.

“I hate that man,” Bixby said.

He hadn’t realized he said it out loud until Endeavour turned, looking surprised. It wasn’t often he said such a thing.

“Why?” Endeavour asked.

Bixby didn’t know quite what to say. “People aren’t people to him,” he said simply. “To him, they’re only crackers.”

“Crackers?” Endeavour asked, wonderingly.  Then he laughed. “Well, you’re a cracker, I suppose.”

Bixby looked sharply from the screen to Endeaovur. “What’?” he asked bluntly.

Endeavour’s smile faded, turned uncertain. “Well, you’re certainly full of surprises, aren’t you?”

 

Bixby laughed. “That’s right,” he said.

He had forgotten for a moment that to Endeavor, a cracker was something that got put on your plate at Christmas, something you pulled open for a prize and a paper crown. But he was right: there were quite a few people who would be surprised to see him now.

 

“What a brave new world!” the voiceover concluded.

Endeavour grumbled at that. “Haven’t those people read Huxley?”  he asked, turning off the television. “That line has sort of lost its Shakespearean connotation of wonderment, hasn’t it? Much more dystopian than utopian now, I would say.”

“Well,” Endeavour sighed. “I’m off to collect Thursday. He’s been a bit of a—well, a counter-cracker lately, sad as it is to say. It’s like he’s gone completely hollow.”

 

Bixby smiled.

Oh, sweet mercy.

He certainly hoped Endeavour would drop the analogy at some point during the day. He seemed spun up lately—something was troubling him, it was clear. And when he was in such a mood, once he latched onto something, it would take some doing before he'd let it go. 

Ah, well. If Endeavour went about calling people crackers and counter-crackers, he’d have only himself to blame.

 

 

*****************

At Heaviside Studios, Endeavour kept near the wall, well behind Strange and Thursday, as Max crouched beside the body of Eric Charles Gidby, whose blood and brain matter lay splattered across the false lunar landscape of the soundstage.

The star-shaped contact burns around the entry site of the gunshot wound, Max said, were indicative of suicide.

 “Nothing to say otherwise,” he added, turning to him with a thoughtful look. And Endeavour understood at once.

He was leaving the call open, then.

After all, Endeavour had first met Max years ago, on a river bank, by the body of Miles Percival—over a case of suicide that was not a suicide.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. 

 

*************

Jeff and Hildy Slayton had told them that Gidby had attempted suicide once before. That he had never come to terms with the death of his first wife, Patricia, who was killed in a hit and run accident three years ago, somewhere out in Wallingford.

 

“I think if the police had found who had killed her . . .”  began Marilyn, Eric Gidby’s young and soft-spoken second wife. She let the sentence fall into the air and shrugged helplessly, as if she was powerless to guess how the path might have divided and divided ... if only things could have happened otherwise.

“That’s what he couldn’t let go. We would be out sometimes, and he would see a car that looked like the one that hit her, and he would . . .”

She stopped again and sadly shook her head.

“He thought he saw it last week, at the studios, and it sent him into a spin.”

 

And it sent him into a spin.

A spin.

 

And perhaps it might be suicide. Perhaps Gidby had fallen into a spin, perhaps Gidby had fallen over a precipice, perhaps he didn’t know what was lemonade and what was madness in a glass, and perhaps everyone said what they didn’t mean, and all social interactions were essentially dishonest, and the old Jag lay somewhere in pieces, and the car that killed his Patricia was there, right there, right in front of the studio, and his poems caught in the wind and flew in the air like birds, and he had only three francs, and why not walk into a loch? Why not close your eyes forever on a false replica of a moon?  Where it would be cold and quiet. Where there would be peace and stillness?

It was possibly true.

 

But he didn’t want to leave a world that held Bix, and he didn’t want to leave a world that held Marilyn...

It was also possibly not true.

 

As Max was finishing the preliminaries, Thursday wandered off to ask Jeff Slayton a final few questions. But Thursday seemed anxious. Doubtless, he was worried that they had overstepped their bounds.

But why? It certainly wasn’t their fault if Box was so late coming in of a morning.

 

Endeavour went out onto the sidewalk to clear his head, putting his sunglasses down over his face as he went, and Strange followed, quietly, in his wake.  

“How’s he seem, the old man?” Strange asked. “How’s he working under Box?”

Endeavour said nothing. The truth was too terrible even to say.

And he didn’t have to; for just then, Box and Jago came plowing down the sidewalk, looking ready for a row, right at the moment that Thursday had emerged from the dark studio out into the summer light.

It would all unfold now, and Strange could see for himself just how Thursday was working under Box.

 

“You’re on light duties!” Box shouted. “I thought we got this straight!”

“Suspicious death on Banbury’s ground, but too big for ‘em to deal. What was I supposed to do?” Thursday retorted.

  

Endeavour found he was glad he had put his sunglasses on; they made the world seem as if he was watching it through a tunnel. He didn’t want to be too close to this.

  
“You’re _supposed_ to fetch me,” Box said.

“I left word,” Thursday protested. “You were in transit.”

“Well, I’m here now. So you’d better talk me through it.”

And Thursday turned, and hustled back into the building, even though he had no further business there for the moment.  He went simply to go over everything again for Box and Jago’s sake.

 

What a sad waste of his time.

 

Strange, ever diplomatic, made no comment. He appeared to be considering something.

“I saw Joanie, up at the magistrate’s with some young arsonist,” he said. A young girl. Flora _Humbolt_ ,” he added, emphasizing the girl’s surname.  

“Humbolt? Flora? did you say?” Endeavour asked, snapping to attention.

 

Endeavour remembered her well. She was the young girl who had been at the back garden tennis court, when he and Thursday had told the Humbolts about the damage done to the brakes of their car.

And well did he recognize her look of resignation. Her face set firm against the drip, drip, drip of constant criticisms and humiliations.

 

Don’t make a face like that, it makes you look very ugly, get Matthew a drink, do you see what I have to put up with? If you leave those records here again, I’ll throw them out, stop looking so superior, I told Cyril he should have you looked at.

 

Isobel Humbolt was Gwen Morse and worse then Gwen Morse. For at least Endeavour had had the solace of knowing Gwen was not his real mother.

Flora had no memory of any other.

 

What could possibly have driven the girl to start setting fires? With parents like that, who knew? She might have seen, she must have overheard something that had upset her, pushed her to act out, pushed her to her own voiceless form of protest.

 

Endeavour was just mulling this over, when Box, Jago and Thursday came out again onto the sidewalk, blinking in the sun.

“Right,” Box said. “Banbury can finish with statements and forensics. We’re going back to town, see if we can keep this attempted with Humbolt ticking over.”

 

 _Ticking over?_ No wonder they were only managing to keep things _ticking_ _over_ if they were planning to overlook _this_.

 

Dear God, Box was thick.

 

“How can you think of separating this case from the ‘ _attempted with Humbolt?_ ” Can you really think this is a coincidence?” Endeavour asked.

 

Box and Jago stood, blank-faced, their wheels grinding, as always, five notches behind. Was he going to have to spell it out for them?

 

“Jeff Slayton’s personal assistant is murdered, his scientific advisor dies in a car crash intended for someone else, and not forty-eight hours later, one of his puppeteers is found dead? I would say they were connected,” Endeavour said.

“To your way of thinking maybe,” Box shrugged

"That’s right,” Jago said. “To your way of thinking. Your completely barmy  _cracked_ way of thinking.”

 

Suddenly, Box rounded on Jago. “Did I ask you to speak?”  he snapped.

 

Jago stood blinking stupidly, surprised at Box’s outburst. “It suicide isn’t it. It’s textbook.”

“Maybe,” Endeavour said. “But we should at least run a gun residue test on the members of staff. Give the impression that we know what we’re doing. Or that we give a damn.”

 

“Morse,” Thursday said, as a note of warning in his voice.  

 

“Oh, I get it. I wondered how long you could keep it buttoned. Come to show us how it’s done, have you?” Box asked.  

“Nine times out of ten these things are the spouse,” Jago said, softy.  

“This isn’t robbery,” Endeavour said, outraged at their laziness, at their sheer unforgivable stupidity.  “You can’t just look to the first likely suspect and fit them up for it.”  

“Come again?” Box asked, lurching forward, his hands curling at his sides.

 

Thursday seemed to recognize the movement for what it was and hurried to intervene. But, incredibly, instead of putting Box in his place for his churlishness, Thursday turned on _him._

 

“You didn’t mean that, how it came out, did you, Morse?” he asked. Placating, cajolingly, as if he were a child having a temper tantrum. When he was right, damn it.

And Thursday knew it.

Thursday knew he was right.  

 

“Yes, I did. I _did_ mean it,” Endeavour cried. He waved a hand dismissively toward Box.  “He’s not a detective. I may be cracked, but at least I’m a cracker. But him, there’s nothing to him, is there?  He’s nothing but a fist with a warrant card!”

“Is that right? Box said. “Well, you’re nothing but a mouth without a warrant card!"

Predictably enough, Jago laughed syphocantly.

 

Well, he _did_ have a warrant card, didn’t he?

And...

And, at that moment, he felt it.

Thursday was afraid. My God.

 

Why had he given him the thing if the thought he hadn’t better sense than that?

 

Thursday was afraid.

Of him. Of what he might do next, or what he might say.

 

Endeavour tore his sunglasses off, widened his eyes alarmingly, and went up to Box in that way that so unsettled them all when he was in prison, in that manner that led them to fear that he had, as Jago had just said, completely cracked, that led them to finally, mercifully leave him alone.

“I _do_ have a warrant card,” Endeavour said, in a voice not far above a whisper. “And it’s been locked away for 50 years.”

 

Then he put his sunglasses on, turned on his heel, and left, left them all behind, and Thursday with them.

Thursday followed after him, but what was the point? He had made his position abundantly clear.

 

“Haven’t lost the old charm, have you?” Thursday snarled.

Endeavour said nothing, only kept walking.

“Gun residue now, is it? I thought it was this key you were on about.”

“I know whose key it is already,” Endeavour said.  

“What’s this?” Thursday asked. “What have you been doing? What were you told about digging around on your own? You best get down to the nick and pore over those books you were so keen on.”

“I did. And it was the one _I_ found _myself,_ in the grass, too, that gave me the answer,” he said. “That’s how I know.”

“How you know what?” Thursday asked.  

“How I know how these people think. It’s how I knew where Gabriel Van Horne would park his car.”

“Who the hell is Gabriel Van Horne?” Thursday asked.  

 

Endeavour stopped on the sidewalk and took the sunglasses off again. “I’d say we could have a pint so you catch up,” he said, “but you’re far too behind the times now. I suppose that’s because you’ve been so busy with your new friends. So busy down at the pub, taking envelopes under the table from your new guv’nor.”

Thursday’s dark eyes went still at that—the blood draining at once from his tanned and ruddy face.

A cry of surprise tore itself from Endeavour’s throat. He had said it to wound, he had said it to lash out, he hadn’t known it was true.

It was true.

It was true.

Endeavour could not bear it. He turned and continued on down the sidewalk. And nothing was ever as it seemed and it was all smoke and mirrors and . . .

“Morse!” Thursday boomed.  

 

Endeavour spun round and shouted as he continued walking backwards. “I have a previous engagement. This isn’t my real career anymore, you know.” He took a few more strides and turned again, adding, “And besides. I don’t need anyone. I can solve the case in my spare time, while keeping up my end of a book contract. Do you know why?”

He waited for Thursday to respond, but no answer was forthcoming, so Endeavour supplied it for him.

“Because I give a damn!”

 

He had almost gotten to the corner, when Thursday shouted, “But what about he car?”  

Endeavour turned one final time. “You can drive it back yourself. I’m not American. I needn’t drive everywhere.”

And then he turned his back on Thursday and rounded the corner.

And then they all disappeared behind him.

**********

“Young eel. Five letters,” Jago said.

“Elver,” Thursday said.

It seemed odd, for Jago to be working out a crossword puzzle. It was as if Thursday was being haunted by the ghosts of so many stakeouts with Morse.

 

It was like a reckoning.

 

He couldn’t get his row with Morse out of his mind. Morse had never looked at him that way. Never.

What so-called engagement could the lad have? It was an excuse, he knew. It was the same look Win gave him so often of an evening.

Morse couldn’t stand to be within five feet of him.

 

Thursday sighed. It was just as well, that he had stormed off. As soon as they had gotten back to the cars, they’d got word that their quarry from the stakeout earlier that week had been spotted over on Sutton Street.

A uniformed officer had taken his Jag back to the station, so that Thursday could drive Box and Jago, so he could be at the ready lest they need to call for backup.

He couldn’t imagine Morse here, locked in the car with the three of them. After a mere five minutes, Ronnie and Morse would be at each other’s throats.

 

They had seen nothing so far. Ronnie kept nervously drumming his fingers on the inside of the door. He was wound up about something, make no mistake.

For something to do, to give Ronnie some space for his thoughts, Thursday picked up a piece of the newspaper that had been tossed in front by Jago.

 

And there they were again: two blue eyes looking out on him, looking at him in judgment wherever he went.

  
On the front page was a photograph of Morse, accompanied by an article by Miss Frazil; it must finally be that interview he had promised her last January.

Thursday unfolded the page; he had given her some sort of an “exclusive,” it seemed. Or so the headline proclaimed.

 

Ah. He _was_ working on a new book, then. Maybe he did have some such deadline to hit, some phone call to Turner to make.

_The Way to Cross?_

Now where had he gotten that one? It sounded quite different, much simpler a title than his more elaborately-named earlier books.

Thursday leaned back in the deep leather seat and read on. And....

Oh, Christ. What was this?  Was he on about that traffic info spot again? He sure as hell hoped Morse knew what he was doing. He must have felt confident enough, though, since it looked as if he had given Miss Frazil a few poems to print. 

 

“Horizon pointer.  Five letters,” Jago said.  

This, for some reason, seemed to be wearing on Ronnie’s nerves. “Will you quit with that goddamned thing?” he said. 

“What now?” Jago said defensively. “You’ve been on me all day.”

Ronnie turned around in his seat, snatching the paper.

“Yes, and I’ll tell you why. First off, you were a half an hour late coming to fetch me this morning. And second, I got your range scores back. An embarrassment is what you are. If you spent less time with this rubbish and more time on the range, your scores wouldn’t be so pathetic. You must be the worst shot on the force.”

Ronnie shook his head in disgust.

 

And Thursday never would have done this, never would have dressed down a subordinate with someone sitting right there in the driver’s seat. But it was as if Ronnie could no longer contain himself.

 

“Guess who else’s files finally got sent over?” he snorted. “Morse’s. And you know what else? That fairy can shoot circles 'round you.”

 

Ah. So, he was still rankled about Morse, then. This had little to do with Jago and everything to do with Ronnie’s ego.

 

“I’ve never been very coordinated. What do you want me to do about it?” Jago asked petulantly.

“I want you to get your arse out there and put in some practice!” Ronnie shouted.  He turned and scowled out the window, leaning his arm on the window’s ledge, restlessly drumming his fingers again.

Ronnie was silent for a moment and then he rounded again on Jago. “You shouldn’t have said that to Morse,” he snapped.

“What?” Jago said, surprised.

“That thing about _“his way of thinking_.”

“You said it,” Jago complained.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean it _that_ way.”

Jago shook his head in disbelief. “You are the one who is always saying what a condescending prick he is.”

“He is. He is a condescending little prick. And a drunk, too. But that other thing. He got a raw deal, he did. That wasn’t right. That Deare was as slimy as they come. Morse was just trying to do right by those kiddies.”

Jago looked out the window. “Well,” he said, defiantly. “I stand by what I said. My mate Kellner was a guard at that prison, and he said he was as barmy as they come. Singing goddamn opera at three in the morning.”

 

And Thursday wished he could get out of the car. If Morse himself had never told him about this, then he did not ever want to know.

“What’s this?” Ronnie said.

“He sang fucking opera. All night. To drive the others mad.”

Box laughed softly at his, as if bizarrely, Morse had finally earned a modicum of his respect.

 

“Yeah?” Ronnie asked. “Well. Good for Morse, then.”

Jago scowled and returned to his crossword, smoothing out the page a bit more loudly than necessary. 

 

Just then, the radio clicked on with a message from the dispatcher—the men they were seeking had managed to avoid them and had been spotted going into a pub two blocks north.

Well, they couldn’t elude them forever. If they had gone into a pub, they’d be cornered now.

Thursday put the car into drive and started down the road.

But, once they turned the corner, they found that the road was blocked. Two officers in uniform stood, arms folded, out on the sidewalk, watching over the scene. Further ahead, two men walked along the edge of a gathering crowd, one with a camera with an expensive-looking, overlarge lens, the other dressed in a crisp, sharp suit, holding a satchel.

 

“What the hell?” Ronnie said. “Why is the road closed?” He narrowed his eyes at the man holding the camera. “Probably that old fool filming another spot for traffic,” he muttered.

 

Thursday felt his blood pressure rise—first Morse was a fairy and then Mr. Bright an old fool. Was he really going to sit here and listen to them? Since when did he fear speaking up for himself, speaking up for a friend?

 

Thursday felt his heart sink. One of the uniformed officers was Trewlove. He knew, in his mind, that Trewlove was tough, that Trewlove could fend for herself; but in his heart?  No. He knew he would not be able to listen to Box and Jago cast aspersions on her the way they had just done Morse and Bright. Women’s lib or no women’s lib, it didn’t sit right with him, and it never would. One foul word about her, and his hands would be around Box’s throat before he finished the sentence.

 

Thursday could not help but feel a sense of relief when the male officer headed over.

“What's this? Why is this road blocked?” Ronnie barked.

“Some Paris nobs,” the young officer said. “For some publishing house photo shoot. Very big wheels, evidently. We’ve got a crowd control situation on our hands.”

 

Oh, no. This just got better and better.

 

Thursday immediately moved to get out of the car. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “I’ll tell them they need to move along.”

Ronnie grunted. “All right then, Fred.”

As he approached, Thursday felt sure the satchel the man was carrying was Morse’s—this must be Turner, then, if he was allowed to carry the thing.   

 

Thursday flashed his warrant card to get through the crowds, and, sure enough, at the center, was Morse—his hair wild, his sunglasses perched coolly in the sunlit waves—leaning moodily against the PELICON signal.

 

Maybe Morse had become comfortable with his newfound celebrity at last, or maybe he was still seething from the day’s events. Because there was no other word for it . . he was looking.... well... positively sultry—leaning against the signal with his arms tightly crossed, as though he was bearing the weight of the world, his eyes blazing like blue hot fire.

 

The man in the sharp suit seemed to be beside himself. “That is _it_ , Baby! Now you’ve got it.”

 

Morse’s face didn’t change at the appellation, which led Thursday to believe that he was not listening—he was still stewing.

 

And suddenly, the harsh lights of the camera flash on Morse's angular face couldn’t help but remind Thursday of when he had first seen him, under the soft desk light of the Cowley CID. 

 

"There's official lines of inquiry we're following, Morse," he had said. "Poetry books aren't one of them." 

And Morse had smiled self-deprecatingly, but he had also looked at him with respect, for having taken the time to have heard him out. 

 

“Excuse me,”Thursday said loudly.

The crowd fell to a hush and turned to look.

“We’re going to need you to clear this road. Police orders," he said. 

“That’s fine, officer,” the man in the sharp suit said.  “We’re done here anyway.” 

“It’s a wrap,” he called to the cameraman.

Meanwhile, Morse scarcely deigned to look at him.  He passed, right by him in fact, like royalty, stopping to talk to people in the crowd and signing a few books that were thrust before his face as he went. When he came to Thursday, he looked almost right through him, as if he didn’t know him. As if he were some sort of international award-winning poet rather than his bagman.

Then, he slid his sunglasses down over his face and disappeared further into the depths of the crowd, leaving Thursday feeling more lost than ever—as if Morse, who had once so wanted to follow him, had now left him far, far behind.  

***********

 

Joan was reviewing a few files in preparation for that afternoon’s court session, when Morse came striding into the room, back in his customary shirt and tie now, but nonetheless looking flustered.

“Morse?” she asked.

Morse’s eyes widened when he saw her, and he came over at once, throwing himself into the chair before her desk and leaning forward. He glanced about the room as if to check to see who was in earshot, and, when he spoke, his voice was low and conspiratorial.

 “Jim Strange said he saw you at the magistrate’s with Flora Humbolt. Criminal damage.”

“That’s right,” Joan said.  

“What can you tell me about her?”

Joan blinked. “Er, nothing,” she said simply.  “You’re asking me to discuss a client.”

 

Morse shook his head slightly, as if Joan had misunderstood, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “I’m looking to find out about her _family situation_ ,” he said, as if this somehow made a difference.

“There _is_ such a thing as case confidentiality,” Joan explained.

 

Morse sat up straight in his chair, his eyes snapping. “Well, you told Strange all about it. Where was your confidentiality then?”  

Joan laughed. “That was nothing that he couldn’t have read for himself on the docket. But I can’t go making conjectures about clients, or discuss what I’ve been told in private sessions behind their backs.” 

“ _Sessions_?” Morse asked, outraged. “What are you, some sort of head shrinker now, too?”

Joan blinked. “What’s the matter with you? Why are you behaving this way?”

Morse scowled. “Because. It’s important. There’s something going on with her parents. I have reason to believe they might be accessories after the fact to a murder.”

Joan grimaced. She was certainly no fan of Isobel Humbolt . . .  but murder? That sounded a bit extreme. “I’m sorry, Morse. But I can’t tell you what a thirteen-year-old has discussed with me in confidence. Surely, you can understand that.”

“No, I don’t understand," he said. "Because if I were Strange, you wouldn’t have said any such thing. If I were Strange, you would have told me. Even, even a few years ago you would have told me.”

"I certainly would not,” she said.

 

But Morse appeared not to believe her; he just sat in the chair looking put out as hell.

 

Dear God, Strange was right.

He could be a prickly bugger.

 

“What’s all this?” he asked, suddenly, gesturing to her kerchief.

“What’s all what?” she asked. 

"It’s all very . . it’s very . . . ‘Soviet milk yields are up this quarter, Comrade.’ You look like that girl from Dr. Zhivago. You don’t look like you," he said. 

 

_“You don’t look like you?”_

 

“Is that what you’re so prickly about?" Joan asked. "What I said at the carnival? I only said it because I had hardly ever seen you out of a suit, let alone in a t-shirt with a French cartoon dog on it. I didn’t mean for you to get so touchy about it.”

He looked at her, his face impassive. And then he reeled off something in Russian, something that sounded as if it was from a poem. 

 

It was too much. Joan was trying to be taken seriously. The last thing she needed was Morse causing a scene.

 

Then, to add insult to injury, he translated it for her.

 

"Here now--our age of socialism! Here in the thick of life below! Today in the name of things to be, into the future forth we go!" he said. 

 

Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, there you go again. I know you’re smart. We all know you’re smart. You don’t have to prove it all of the time.”

Morse scowled. “I do. I do have to prove it,” he said. "I have to prove it every day.”

“But why?’ Joan asked.  

“Because I do,” he said, jumping up to his feet.

“Well, that’s an articulate answer, coming from a poet,” Joan snapped.

 

It was ridiculous. It was like a fight she might get into with Sam.

 

“Because,” he said. “Because I’m surrounded by singularly unhelpful people who can’t tell windmills from giants, that’s why. Because I have to do everything myself!”

“No, you don’t, Morse.”

But Morse was already halfway to the door. “Yes, I do,” he called.

Joan leaned forward and shouted after him, “Take a day off!”

 

She plopped back into her chair and noticed that Miss Wall had looked up from her paperwork and had watched the entire exchange.

Wonderful.

“Was that, really . . . Was that Endeavour Morse?”  she asked. 

But Joan could only shake her head. Morse could win the Nobel prize for literature, but to her, he’d never be “Endeavour Morse.” To her, he’d always be that gawky but endearing but utterly impossible young man in a cheap suit, trying his best to blend into the wallpaper as he waited for her father.

 “One of Dad’s,” she said. And then she returned to her files. 

 

******************** 

Thursday had just settled himself on the sofa with his third Scotch when there was a ring at the door.

He approached it carefully, his mind heavy and slow with the fog of alcohol; ever since Win had taken to stopping before the mirror in the hall to freshen her lipstick before going out, he’d feared the day he might have to come face to face with some fancy man. Would he cave in, sagging in defeat? Or pound the blighter’s head in? Thursday himself wasn’t sure.

He had scarcely gotten the door open before the assault began; his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness outside before he found himself being pelted with small bits of paper.

“I offered twice to give this to you, and you said no. But you’ll take money from Box?” Morse shouted.

It took Thursday a second to realize the bits of paper were colorful French bank notes, falling to his feet.  “And here,” Morse said, pelting him with something a bit heaver. “You might as well take this back. Then you needn’t live in fear that I might tell someone you gave it to me.”

“Morse,” Thursday began.

“What about those stories you always tell? About when you and Mrs. Thursday lived in London? You didn’t have a penny, is what you always say. You know what I think? I think Mrs. Thursday doesn’t give a damn about the money. I think what she does give a damn about it finding herself married to some stranger. And an arse of one at that.”

“Morse,” Thursday said, raising one broad hand, as if to silence him.

“And you dared. You dared, you dared to come by that lake house and badger me so. Where are all your fine speeches now?” he shouted. 

 

“You should forget all that,” Thursday said. “We’re all just cogs, Morse. Cogs in the wheel. You should forget everything I said. I was never what you thought I was.”

 

“You bloody hypocrite! That’s what I said, out at the lake house! And you wouldn’t leave me in peace for one damn day.” He pulled himself up to his full height, his eyes snapping. “You know what I think?”

“What’s that?” Thursday asked, knowing full well that he was going to hear it anyway.  

“I think there’s a town that needs looking to. And that hasn’t changed just because your bank account’s dropped a few zeros!”

 

Then he threw a final burst of banknotes into the air so that they fell on Thursday's shoulders like confetti at a parade.

 “And you might as well just keep that. Bix hates that I have it in a shoebox not even collecting any interest, so you’d be doing him a favor,” Morse shouted. And then he slammed the door.

 

Thursday stood there for a minute, feeling dazed—it had been incongruous, almost surreal, being shouted at and showered with celebratory confetti at the same time.

 

Just then, there was a fierce knock on the door. Thursday opened it. Morse was there again, his face still blazing with anger in the streetlight.

He stormed into the hall and picked up a few random notes from off the floor.

“Actually, I need a bit of this to pay my traffic citations,” he said. He counted a few of the notes and then cast the rest back onto the tiles. It was unfortunate, really, that he hadn’t remembered that in the first place; he seemed almost angrier now that his dramatic gesture had not gone as smoothly as he had planned.

He paused in the door and shouted, “If you live in the shadows long enough, you forget the light.”

And then he slammed the door again behind him.

 **********************

Endeavour lay with one long leg stretched out over the covers. The windows were thrown open to catch a breeze, but, even though the curtains were billowing gently, the room was still overly warm. He moved down a bit, searching for a cooler spot on the pillow.

And nobody said what they meant. And all social interactions are essentially dishonest. And suddenly, he understood what had been troubling him. Suddenly, he knew why he couldn’t sleep.

“Bix?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“There’s something I should tell you.”

“Is this when you tell me why you’ve been riding that ridiculous bicycle?” Bixby asked.

Endeavour paused. “Yes.”

Bixby rolled over, regarding him blearily. Only his eyes and the dark gloss of his hair were shining in the moonlight—all else, the summer green walls, the furniture, and the contours of his face, were hidden in shadow.

 

Endeavour half sat up, propping his head on the fist of one bent arm. “I got my driver's license revoked. In France. Just before we left.”

 

“Oh,” Bixby said. “Well, I did warn you. You rattle at me about my hydroplane. But whatever it is that you’ve done to that Jag ought to be illegal.”

Endeavour furrowed his brow. It had been years since he had dared to let it fly out on the back country roads around their house. These days, he actually travelled a bit under the speed limit, sticking to the slow lane.

Or, at least he meant to.

 

“No, it wasn’t that. I was. . .  I got mixed up, I suppose, after being in England. I was driving on the left. When I was in Nancy.”  

 “They took your license away because of one honest mistake?" Bixby asked incredulously. "Everyone there knows you’re an expatriate.”

“No. I . . . I did it a few times.”

“Oh,” Bixby said. He appeared to mull this over for a moment. “So, can you get it back?”

“Yes. I have to take a class in Nancy. In October. But I thought . . . I wasn’t going to try to get it back.”

“All right,” Bixby said. 

“But I’ve figured out a trick now. I think I can do it. I mean, I can.”

“Well, all right,” Bixby said again, as if it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference either way. “Just tell me when it is, I guess. I can run you up. I’ll probably pop in and see Dullier while I’m there.” He frowned, then. "Wait a minute, though. Haven't you been driving Thursday?" 

"Yes," Endeavour admitted. 

"Jesus," Bixby said. "You had better cut that out right now. Or you'll never get it back if you're caught." 

 

Endeavour waited for Bix to say more.

 

“Just like that? he asked.

Just like what? Bix replied.

“You aren’t going to say anything about it? You think it’s all right? If I get it back?”

 “Well, yes," Bixby said simply. "For God’s sake—you could kill someone, driving around on the wrong side of the road. I know you’d not risk that. If you say you can do it, you can do it.”

 

But . . . wasn't he missing the larger point?

“I suppose.”

Or maybe he wasn’t. And maybe it was all right, after all. 

In Scotland, he had stumbled aboard trains, casting a glance over his shoulder, and he had lost Bixby's jacket somewhere in the grass and his money somewhere on a bench.  But then, he had also climbed to the top of brush-green hills as the sun died in a pool of pink, and he had strode out onto smooth stones by the North Sea, and walked beneath flocks of birds that flew like arrows and . . .

 

“Bix, do you think what Reece said was true? What Susan said was true?”

“About what?”

"When I was in Scotland, I missed you. But I was happy, too,  because . . .  I don’t know, because . . . I did get around all right, you know. I know it isn’t the most spectacular feat. But I realized . . . I’m not only some albatross. Or, not yet, at least.”

 

“Albatross?” Bixby asked, wonderingly.

 

“And I made my deadlines, too. And when I was walking home. … I’m not sure if I’d ever been so happy. Is that strange to say?”

Bixby buried his face in his hands. “Jesus, was I drunk that night. I had forgotten about that. I’m the one who ought to have my license taken away.”

“But do you think it’s true? What Reece said? That . . .  I don’t know. That I thought I was doing so well, when I was really, well . . .  just something pitiable?”

“Please,” Bixby said. “Reece? The man was half-mad with jealousy. That’s success for you. I’ve become used to it. Think about it: When did your friends ever have a kind word to say about me?”  

Endeavour hesitated. 

“Well, Pippa and Tony thought you were all right. At first," he said, diplomatically. 

“Oh. At first,” Bixby laughed.

 

Bixby turned and raised his arm so that it was resting over his head, allowing the weak light from the window to fall upon his face. “Besides, what did I tell you about that? About letting people take things from you? That doesn’t just go for money and satchels, you know.”

 

Endeavour said nothing. He supposed it was true. But Bixby still was missing the point, wasn’t he? Was he going to have to force him to see more clearly, the road he’d be headed down, if they stayed together?

 

“What I wanted to say is," Endeavour began, "I was happy because I realized that I didn’t have to be. . .  an encumbrance. I wouldn’t want you to feel, as if you’re ever . . . obligated." 

 

“Obligated?” Bixby asked slowly.

 

“Just. If things ever got. I just wouldn’t want you to feel obligated. That's all,” Endeavour said. 

 

Bixby sat up abruptly. He had seemed so at ease amidst the pillows, that the movement took Endeavour by surprise.

 

“Sometimes I wonder how you fell in with that crowd of yours, from when you were up," he said. "And sometimes it’s all too clear.”

 

Endeavour stilled at that.

 

“So that’s how this is going, then?" he asked. "Last time I checked, I’m the one with a criminal record, living under an alias. If it all goes south for me, what, are you going to just take off back to Scotland?”

“No,” Endeavour said. “Of course not.”  

Bixby snorted. “Why not? I wouldn’t want you to feel _obligated._ ”

 

And it happened so seldom, that Bixby was angry, that Endeavour didn’t know quite what to do.

"I meant it for you," Endeavour said. "I just don’t want you to feel trapped, that’s all. I’d be miserable if I thought you just. . . If you thought you had to stay just because you felt sorry for me.”

 

“Why the hell should I feel sorry for you?” Bixby asked.

 

And, of course, Bixby must know. Of course, he must understand.

 

“Please,” Endeavour said, quietly. “You know why. I know you know why. Please don’t make me say it.”

 

Bixby sighed and said nothing.

“There’s no point in worrying about what might or might not happen," he said finally. Then he smiled. "Besides, if that awful mustache didn’t chase me off, I think you can consider us a done deal."

 

Then, Bixby was quiet for a moment. “You know what the problem is, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, not this,” Endeavour said, burying his head in his pillow. “It’s ridiculous.”

 

Bixby looked affronted. “It certainly isn’t. If we were married, that would put an end to all of this. There wouldn’t be any talk of _obligation._ We’d just be.”

“I don’t know,” Endeavour said, uncertainly.  “It certainly didn’t seem to help my parents any. Or the Thursdays now.”

“I think it makes a difference,” Bixby said. “I think it did for my parents.”

 

Endeavour thought this over; it did seem somewhat astounding to him, they way Bix’s parents had lived through a drought and the deaths of four children in infancy, and, still, in his stories, seemed always to stand together, seemed always to have been happy with one another. Endeavour’s parents hadn’t lasted long enough even in a comfortable house in Lincolnshire for him to remember a time when they were ever married.

 

“Besides,” Bixby said, falling back into that modulated and polished voice that he used to affect at parties. “I don’t really like all of this talk of _obligation,_ to tell you the truth. It’s all terribly middle class, old man.”

“Oh, no, not _this_ ,” Endeavour said. He took the pillow and put it over his head, as if to shield himself from the words.

"This what?" Bixby asked. 

"You know," Endeavour said. 

Endeavour clung to the pillow with both hands, one on either side of his head, holding it in place, as Bixby laughed, trying to pull it away.  

 

“Really, old man, it’s nothing at all very remarkable,” he said, reciting his old Bixby spiel, while pulling at the pillow. “My parents died when I was young. My inheritance was held in trust until I reached majority. I travelled a bit, I got to know the stocks business. You see, the truth of it is altogether dull.”

 

It struck Endeavour then—in a roundabout way, every bit of his old line was true. The only part of it that was off was the fact that his "inheritance" had been the subject of some dispute. But he had never actually _said_  that it had come to him directly, through his parents.

Endeavour threw the pillow down and rolled back over, his eyes wide.  

Bixby must have realized that it had finally dawned on him, that the old lies he had once told were true. He swooped down and kissed him, as if to kiss the surprised look away. Then he pulled back, laughing. 

Endeavour put his hands through Bix’s dark hair and urged him back down, for a longer, slower kiss, and, suddenly, the world was unwinding. He kissed him again, and in the slow, warm, insistent slide of their mouths, the world slowed into a haze of aftershave and delicious heaviness. Endeavour threw the leg that was outside the covers up and around Bix's waist, pulling him closer against him, and the curtains billowed and the mattress sunk with the shift of their weight and . . . 

And, suddenly, Bixby was right. They needn’t worry about tomorrow.

Not just yet.

 

 


	6. "You Just Get That Feeling Sometimes, Don't You?"

 

Endeavour woke to find the sun streaming through the open window. He lay for a moment, blinking against the brightness, his hand resting lightly on Joss’s chest.

They had fallen asleep naked and tangled together on top of the blankets, with the windows left thrown open to catch the cooling night air.

 

Endeavour raised his head off of the pillow and looked at Joss, and his lips twitched gently at the sight. Even in sleep, Joss’s full mouth was turned upwards in that familiar, bemused, self-assured Bixby smile. Endeavour rolled over and kissed him—a soft, slow kiss, for a silent summer morning.

Joss woke then, with a surprised intake of breath, and, in a moment, Endeavour could feel a deeper, more natural smile forming beneath his kiss.  

 

He pulled back and planted a row of kisses along Joss’s jawline, brushing his face against the burn of stubble as he went, before moving down to his throat and then down to his chest. Joss stretched out beneath him and relaxed back into the pillows, arching his back like a cat and settling further into the mattress.

 

Endeavour lifted his face from the dark hair of Joss’s chest and regarded him as he lay, half-waking, sprawled before him.

 

He knew Joss was sometimes amused that he didn’t seem to mind when they ran into one of his former lovers—that, though he might find a few of them a bit trying at times—he never displayed the slightest twinge of jealousy.

But there was no need. It occurred to Endeavour early on that Joss must not have stuck around with any of these previous lovers for particularly long the next morning. For, if he had, one of them, at least, might have noticed that although Joss was rather dark complected, his arms and face were even two shades darker than the rest of his body— and thus they would have had an inkling of his secret.

Someone raised in Oxford, England would be hard pressed to find himself so branded by the sun.

In the darkness of the woods, Endeavour hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t until they began to share a common bed that Endeavour began to wonder if Joss might have been raised in a warmer clime to be so deeply, permanently marked.

And Joss acted as if snow was a miracle, not a fact of winter and . . . could he really be from Oxford, England? But there were so many things that Joss was not allowed to ask, and so Endeavour hadn’t asked, either.

 

Endeavour learned forward and planted a kiss in the center of Joss’s chest and then worked his way down and down, along and past the dark, coarse curls that led in a line from his navel. Joss’s breath quickened as he moved lower, but when Endeavour glanced up, he saw that his eyes had drifted closed and that the satisfied, bemused Bixby smile was back on his face.

Then, Endeavour moved down suddenly, crouching between his legs, and took him into his mouth, sliding down over his half-hard cock and running his tongue as he rose around the already exposed head.

 

Yes, it was definitely surprising no one had guessed he might be American.

 

Joss let out a soft moan, and Endeavour smiled and quickened his pace until he felt Joss harden further, until his cock grew firm against lips. He let his throat relax and lowered his head, taking him deeper, all the way to the root, before rising up again with a swirl of his tongue.

Joss’s legs tensed, stretching out along either side of him, and Endeavour bobbed up and down on his now fully-erect cock, tendrils of his hair flying about him as he sped to the rhythm that might draw another low moan from Joss’s throat.

 

And there it was.

 

Then, Joss reached his hands forward for him, and Endeavour found his pace falter. But it was a false alarm: at the last moment, Joss remembered himself, and he grabbed onto the sheets on either side of him instead, twisting them in his hands.

Endeavour slowed his pace, watching Joss’s face carefully. And he noticed that, despite the obvious pleasure in Joss’s expression, there was a tension in the corners of his closed eyes, a faint line between his brows.

 

And what had he been afraid of for so long?

 

Endeavour didn’t want to stop to speak, so he slowed his rhythm even further, dragging his tongue teasingly, maddeningly as he rocked, willing those dark eyes to open.

 

And then, they did.

 

Endeavour looked up at him, his own eyes wide to convey his meaning, and nodded.

“Really?” Joss asked.

Endeavour nodded again.

“Are you sure?” Joss asked.

Endeavour nodded again, more forcefully.

Joss groaned then—Endeavour wasn’t sure if it was from the relief he felt from his answer or from the extra layer of movement as he both bobbed and nodded with his cock hot and slick in his mouth.

 

Joss reached forward, and Endeavour steeled himself for just a moment. He felt just like one of those astronauts who were up on the moon right now—the ones driving that lunar rover—how they must have felt at the instant their rocket landed, waiting for the dreadful moment of impact.

But it was ridiculous—why should he be afraid? He trusted Joss’s hands as well as his own—better than his own, actually. Joss had always been more careful with him than he had ever been with himself.  

 

Joss’s hands landed gently onto the halo of his sleep-tousled hair, and, as he wound his fingers through his waves and curls, Endeavour felt them only as lightly as the movement of birds.

Joss’s eyes drifted closed again, and the line between his brows faded. He seemed to be half-smiling, caught up in the decadence of opposing sensations—of the softness of his hair and the firmness of his mouth, sliding warm and wet, tight around him.

 

His hips were twitching slightly forward with each thrust now, but the touch of his hands remained as tender as feathers. And, as they ran through the waves, something seemed to unwind in the pit of Joss’s abdomen.

 

Even as Joss gave himself over to the moment, Endeavour felt himself tense: he was waiting for it—for the moment the hands might push his face down, for the moment they might hold him in place even as he struggled against him. But the moment never came.  

 

To Endeavour’s surprise, it was just the opposite—as the dark eyes fluttered closed in a look of bliss, Endeavour found himself unwinding in sympathy, and he settled back into the pace he had set, letting out a stifled groan at the feel of the cock, now hard as steel, filling him, reaching back into his throat.

 

And it must have been the sound that pitched Joss over the edge, because suddenly his hands flew away, back to grip at the sheets, and he shuddered with a gasp, and then he was coming and coming almost faster than Endeavour could swallow.

 

Joss fell back, and his hands reached forward again, running down Endeavour's arms, urging him up.

Endeavour rose and wiped his mouth across the back of his hand, following as Bixby pulled him up and toward him, so that he was lying flush against him.

Then, Joss buried his face in this throat and kissed him there.

 

“That was a hell of a wake-up call, old man,” he murmured into his ear.

 

And Endeavour had to smile. It was so like Joss to turn and look away, to make a joke, just as if it were any morning, just as if the last wall had not collapsed between them.

 

**********

 

Endeavour went out to the back of the house, where the cars were parked in a semi-circle around a fountain, the keys firm in his hand.

Bixby was a gambler, and he seldom lost. If Bix thought it was all right for him to try, if he would put his money on him, then it was all right.

Although he did say he should wait until he to got his license back....

But it was all right. It wasn’t as if Endeavour hadn’t figured out the trick of it.

 

And, anyway, he’d never get all the places he needed to go today by bicycle.

 

With a turn of the key, the engine of the sky blue Jag rumbled to life. Endeavour reached down and clicked on the radio, turning it to a pop station, where all the words would be in English.

 

It would be a trial, but it was a sacrifice he was prepared to make.

 

As he started down the drive, a commercial for a furniture sale ended on a frantic, hyperbolic note, and then the announcer proclaimed that it was back to the “music.” 

Ha.

Well, all right then.

He was just turning the final circle of the drive when the song began:

 

_Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel_

_Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel_

_Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon_

_Like a carousel that’s turning, running rings around the moon_

_Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face_

 

Hands sweeping past the minutes of its face, just like the clock at Kay and Bruce’s, and the three hands were Ames and Dawkins and Reece....

 

_And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space_

_Like the circles that you find_

_In the windmills of your mind._

 

A circle in a spiral and a wheel within a wheel, and Eric Charles Gidby was in a spin.

 

Marilyn said that Gidby had seen a car down at the studios, one so like the one that had killed his first wife, Patricia, that it sent him into a spin.

Could Gidby have cut the brakes to the car? And then killed himself? Could it be that all of this was the doing of the man who passed by, unseen, up in the rafters, controlling the actions of all of the marionettes below?

 

But then, why were all the marionettes in such a spin? Why were they keeping their words, their stories, their expressions in check?  Why had they worked to protect Van Horne?  Why was Natalie Winqvuist burning leaves in her bonfire pit in July?

 

Gidby could not be the sole author of the tragedy. 

 

After all, even if he _had_ cut the brakes, how was it that Christine Chase was dead before she was even put into the car?

And none of Adam Drake’s set gave a damn about Gidby. They certainly wouldn’t be burning things, calling one another to get their stories straight, putting on this show of solidarity on his account.

 

But still, the possibility that he might be responsible for half, that he might be a coauthor of this sad tale, remained.

 

It would be worth it, finding out about the car that killed Patricia Gidby. To see if it might make a match. It was one thing to either put on or to take off the list, at any rate.

 

***********************

The sun streamed in through the window and Reginald closed the blinds, lest the brightness wake Helena.

“Puli?” she asked.

It was a nickname that took him to another place, to a time when he was all together a different person. He had not heard the name in years, not since his time on the subcontinent.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were Dulcie.”

And she was drifting again, whether from the illness, or the medication, or both, Reginald wasn’t sure.

She frowned then, as if remembering, as if realizing why it was impossible that he might be Dulcie.

 

“I needed you,” she said.

 

There was no need to ask when. Helena had always been strong, had always been independent—she had never needed him, not really. And the only time she had, he had not been there.

“But you weren’t there. Why weren’t you there?” she asked.

“I was upcountry. I came as soon as I got word,” Reginald said.

“But you were too late. You were always too late.”

 

Reginald found he had nothing to say. The words were true.

And there was not one damn thing he could do about them.

 

Her eyes drifted shut and, soon, she was asleep.

It was strange, but he found he was glad to find himself temporarily released from her gaze. Even through soon, he knew, he would wish with all his heart to be scrutinized once more, to be right back under it. 

It was hard—in these last few days, she seemed to be caught up in the circles of the past, and Reginald found himself being judged and found wanting. And as difficult as it was, circling back again and again to the moment of his failure, he realized more difficult days were yet to come: How many mornings would it be until he woke up to find himself completely alone?  
 

He sighed and padded down the stairs. He was just making a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. He was almost afraid to answer it.

Afraid to answer the bell.

Odd, wasn’t it?

 

Once—even just a month ago, in fact— he would have thought nothing of it. Surely, it would have been a friend of Helena’s, calling about one committee or class or another.

Once, the house was full of canasta parties and club meetings. But now, the doorbell scarcely rang.

Now, he was never quite sure what he might find.

 

The informational spot he had done for Traffic, as part of his work with the public safety advisory committee, had been a roaring success with the children, it seemed. He couldn’t walk past a playpark without several of them running up to him and asking him how his pelican was fairing, or even asking him for his autograph. And Reginald had been glad; after all, it was for them that he had done the thing.

There had not yet been a fatality in Oxford, but there had been a few serious accidents—children running into the road to retrieve a lost ball, or to run across to where a friend waited on the other side. If a pelican on a leash got a few laughs and their attention, Reginald was ready to be made a fool of. If there were parents who might be spared the fate of he and Helena, their reason for being stolen away, then so be it.

 

His former colleagues, he knew, felt somewhat differently. On the last occasion that someone had rang the front bell, he had opened the door to find no one there, only a package lying at his feet. Reginald took the package inside, and, when he opened it, he found that it was a poster from the PELICON campaign, wrapped around a large and distinctly smelly fish.

As he looked at it, he felt old suddenly, old and tired, a sharp, dejected tightness settling over his heart. It was ridiculous that at his age he should feel so. Surely, he had other things to despair of save a blow to his ego. But it did hurt—as was its intent. It was painful to think that someone would take the time to do something so cruel. What was the point of it?

 

And so it was with a sinking feeling that he opened the door.

But, when he did, he found Morse, of all people, there on the threshold. Reginald had been so long in answering, that Morse had cupped his hands around one of the glass panes, as if to look inside to see if anyone was at home, and so now, when the door was opened, he leaped back, as if he’d received an electric shock.

Morse looked uncertain for a moment, and then an embarrassed smile flashed across his face, as if he knew he’d been caught out.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know if you were home.”

“Morse,” Reginald said. “Good heavens.”

 

It had been a surprise, seeing Morse again last winter.

Reginald had worked with countless constables over the years, teaching them what he could, helping them along with their careers as well as he was able. Perhaps it was something telling about his personality, that now that his career had ended, his thoughts so often drifted over those faceless, countless others, settling instead on the one constable whom he had failed.

 

It was just as Helena said.

 

_“You were too late. You were always too late.”_

 

By the time he had arrived at Blenheim Vale, Morse was being tucked into the backseat of a police car. Reginald knew instinctively that it all must be some sort of frame up, a symptom of something rotten from within, but he was powerless. There was nothing he could do.

 

Morse was sent to prison, and by the time the inquiry was over, Morse had disappeared.

 

He kept Morse’s warrant card in his desk drawer for years—both in the hope that Morse would one day return and allow him to make up for his mistake, and as a reminder to do his best not to fail the other young men—and now women, too—who came under his charge.

 

But Morse hadn’t come back. The years passed, and one began to hear so many rumors about the man, one didn’t know what to think, as some of them seemed to contradict one another.

Thursday, he knew, had remained in touch—the two were in many ways as much a father and son as an inspector and former bagman—and that was a reassurance. “Morse is all right,” Thursday would say, when Reginald inquired as to how he was getting on.

He bought Morse’s first book when he saw it in the bookshop, thinking it might offer some clue as to what had become of him, but Reginald hadn’t understood a word of it. The critics seemed to think it was brilliant, but he himself thought it half-mad—and so he wasn’t sure whether to see the thing as a balm of solace or as a cause for concern.

 

And then, suddenly, last winter, he was there, pulling up in his drive. Reginald looked up from the branch he was sawing, and he could tell from the first glance that Morse wasn’t quite the same. The sharp and sometimes even daunting light that had once emanated from those focused blue eyes was diffused, somehow, like that of a shattered prism.

Reginald had searched for some hint of blame in those eyes, but no, there had been none—only mild curiosity.

 

As there was today.

 

Thursday had told him that Morse was assisting him on the Drake case. Some new line of inquiry, then?

 

Reginald ushered him into the living room. “Come in, Morse. Please. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You’re still active with the Public Safety Advisory Committee, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” Reginald said, gesturing for Morse to take a seat. “Yes, of course.”

“I was wondering if there might be any way you could find something out for me,” Morse said, settling on the edge of an armchair. “I’m looking for any information Traffic may have on a fatal car accident in Wallingford three years ago. The woman’s name was Patricia Gidby. Hit and run, unresolved.”

“Well,” Bright said, “That would have fallen under Berkshire, of course, before the merger. Gidby, did you say?”

“That’s right, sir,” Morse said. “Patricia.”

“Something to do with the Drake inquiry, is it? Thursday said you were working over at Castle Gate, as an independent consultant of sorts.  Isn’t this a bit outside of your job description?”  

 

“Well,” Morse conceded. ‘It’s . . . . There’s a girl who was killed. Christine Chase. And her death is getting swept up under the carpet. And, well .... " He paused and looked at him uncertainly. "Well,  _someone_ has to help Thursday.”

“Hmmmmm,” Reginald conceded.

It was a sentence that could be taken in more ways than one. It was true: Thursday didn’t seem himself of late. There was a new melancholy there. And the last time he had seen him, out on the sidewalk with DCI Box, he had seemed as directionless as a weathervane in a storm.

“I’m going in to give a committee report at one. I’ll see what I can do,” Reginald said. “I can’t,”—and on this, he was keen to be clear—“I can’t make any promises.”

“I understand, sir,” Morse said. “Thank you, sir.”

“Are you settling in then, back in Oxford? I was given to understand you were living in France,” Reginald said.

“We are. We’re just in Oxford for the summer,” Morse replied. 

“We?”   

“Oh,” Morse said. “I mean I.”

 

 “Ah,” Reginald said. “Well, I’m sure Thursday is glad to have you back. As, indeed, albeit at one remove, am I.”

Morse looked faintly surprised. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Puli?” Helena called.

 

Morse glanced up the stairs at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Reginald cleared his throat.  

“Mrs. Bright,” he explained. “She’s not well.”

“Oh,” Morse said. “I’m sorry.”

“The doctors,” Reginald said—and he hadn’t said the words out loud to anyone other than DeBryn, and when he said them then, he had still harbored a hope that they might not be true. “They say there’s nothing they can do.”

A faint crease formed between Morse’s brows, and suddenly, he looked more like himself; suddenly, Reginald could imagine him as he once was, lost in thought, tapping his pencil against his desk in a dingy corner of the Cowley CID. 

“Have you asked Dr. DeBryn . . . ?” Morse began.

“I have. He recommended a specialist.”

“Ah,” Morse said.

“It was the same doctor who gave us her original diagnosis,” Reginald said.

“Oh,” Morse said, with a soft note like that of a dove in the eaves.

“Well,” Reginald said. “I best go. Not that I’m of much use.”

“I’m sure you are,” Morse countered. 

“How?” he asked, and he was surprised to hear the crack there, surprised to hear the strain of despair in his own voice.

“Because she’s not alone,” Morse said.

 

Reginald nodded. And he did feel heartened. Not so much by what Morse had said, but, well . . . by the fact that someone had tried to say _something._

 

It struck him, then, that he had never fully appreciated what they had had at the Cowley CID. They may have had their disagreements, their conflicts of personality, yes, but they had shared a commonality of purpose that made them, if not friends, almost like... well... a family. Funny how he would miss them all now, but there you are.

 

Somehow, he must have become temporarily lost, caught up in memories of those years, because, as he began his slow climb up the steps, he said, “Very well, Morse. Carry on,” just as if he was still his governor.

 

“Sir?” Morse called after him. “I just realized. You’re not our governor anymore.”

 

Reginald stopped and turned on the step. It was an odd thing to say, he supposed. 

 

“We’ve stared meeting at the pub, for a quiz night. Strange and Fancy and Trewlove and even DeBryn are turning out. Now that you’re retired, you could come with us, if you’d like,” Morse said. He smiled, then, and added.  “You wouldn’t be fraternizing with subordinates anymore.”

Reginald saw the invitation for what it was. It wasn’t for tomorrow or for next week, but rather, it was a standing invitation for that time when he would no longer be needed. For that endless time that seemed to stretch out ahead without horizon, when he’d have nothing but an empty house and a series of committees to serve on.

“I’d like that very much,” Reginald said.  

“Sir,” Morse nodded. And then he let himself out the door.

***********

Fancy stopped before the windows of the bookshop, where a poster of a man leaning broodingly against a PELICON signal, looking out onto the street with smoldering blue eyes,  filled a part of the east window.

“Well, will you look at that? Isn’t that ... Isn’t that Morse?” he asked. “Jesus. He looks to be up for just about anything.”

Trewlove stopped in her tracks beside him. “Is this. . . It looks like some sort of homage to Mr. Bright’s PELICON campaign,” she said. “He looks....Well, uncharacteristically dishy.”

“ _Uncharacteristically_ _dishy_ , does he? Not too tempted, are you?” Fancy asked, smiling.

Trewlove cast him a look of disdain. “My job is complicated enough,” she said. “I’m not sure if I need a complicated man on top of all.”

“Well, then maybe I’m the man for you, after all. I’m just as simple as they come. Or so I’m told,” Fancy laughed.

“Oh?” Trewlove asked. “And who told you that?”

“A certain colleague of mine. Perhaps you know her. Blonde hair. Brown eyes.”

“I never said you were _simple_ ,” Trewlove said. “Well, not exactly.”

Fancy laughed again. “It’s no matter. It’s a badge I wear with honor. There’s certainly no need to give your life a bitter taste just for the hell of it, I always say. And after all, slow and steady wins the race.”

Trewlove smiled. “Perhaps that’s so.”

“So,” Fancy said. “Should we see if those posters are for sale?”

Trewlove looked at him in surprise, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. “Why would you want such a thing? You’re hardly a great reader of poetry.”

Fancy shrugged. “Thought we might get one to bring to the next quiz night. Don’t you think Bixby might want one?”

Trewlove laughed then, a laugh like tinkling bells. She took his arm, and led him into the shop.

“I’m in,” she said.

 

************************

Endeavour jangled the keys in his pocket as he strode out to the sky-blue Jag parked in Mr. Bright’s driveway. And Gidby was in a spin.

And there was someone else in a spin. Someone everyone seemed to overlook.

 

There is no one so voiceless as a teenager.  

 

When a thirteen-year-old is in a spin, it’s said that she’s being difficult. That she’s "going through a stage."

In the case of Flora Humbolt, Endeavour wasn’t so sure.

 

He went up through the back garden the same way he had gone with Thursday. It was only two days ago, but now that day seemed almost to belong to another life. And the path divides and divides, and Thursday was an altogether different person than Endeavour had ever known. He had even said so himself.

 

_I was never what you thought I was._

 

The children were there, in the garden, Flora twirling and daydreaming on a swing, Matthew hopping on a large red bouncing ball with a handle.

“I can go really high!” he declared. “I can go to the moon!”

Flora smiled, and it was a grown-up smile, an indulgent smile: it was the sort of smile someone who no longer believes she can go to the moon gives to someone who still thinks that he can.

 

“Hello,” Endeavour said, loudly, by the hedgerows. They both seemed to be in their own worlds, and he did not want to startle them.

“Miss Humbolt?” he asked.

Flora looked up lazily, holding on to the chain of the swing.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“I’m Endeavour Morse,” Endeavour said. “I don’t know if you remember me? I was here the day before last?”

“Of course, I know who you are,” Flora said. “I have all of your books, you know.”

“Oh,” Endeavour said.

 

He might have known that she would be a precocious reader. She might even have a few opera albums.

Anything to escape from the screaming downstairs, one supposed.

 

Flora spun in one last circle, unwinding the chain of the swing. “My mother says they’re unnerving,” she said. “Your books.”

 

“Ah,” Endeavour said.

Well, there was no pleasing everyone.  

 

“But I shouldn’t worry about her opinion, if I were you,” she said. “She finds anything thought-provoking to be unnerving. She’s always on a razor’s edge.” Flora shrugged then, as if the topic of her mother was not of much interest to her.

She looked up, sharply, squinting in the sun. “Why were you with that policeman the other day?” she asked.

“He’s an . . . he’s an old friend of mine. I’m meant to be helping him out, but . . .”

... but that hadn’t worked out well, had it? Endeavour rubbed the back of his nape, where his hair was already curling wildly in the humidity, unsure of how to finish the sentence.  

 

“Been falling a bit short?” Flora prompted, sagely. “I know that feeling only too well.”

She got up from the swing. “Well, my parents are out, if you want to ask them more about the car,” she said.

“Actually, Miss Humbolt, it was you I wanted to see,” Endeavour said, walking further into the garden.

“Me?” Flora asked. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if your father had ever mentioned Heaviside Studios?” he asked.

 

Flora moved over to sit on the end of a chaise lounge and gestured for Endeavour to come in and sit as well.

“Where they make the puppet films?” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Yes. I’ve been there.”

“You have? When?” Endeavour asked.

“Adam invited us there. Me and Matthew. Last half-term. We could have perfectly easily taken the bus, but mother _insisted_ on driving us there, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?” Endeavour asked.  

“Because it’s her all over. She’s star-struck. Anything to do with the television,” Flora explained.

“Did you see much of him? Adam?”

“He’d be at the house sometimes,” Flora said. “ _Un ami de la maison._ I think that’s the phrase. It’s what mother called him anyway.”

“And did you like him?” Endeavour asked.

“No,” Flora said.

Endeavour laughed. Only the very young felt they could answer such a question so unequivocally. Flora Humbolt was possibly the only honest person in this whole mess. It was a shame, really, that one day she’d have to learn to lie.

“No?” Endeavour asked. “Why?”

“You just get that feeling sometimes, don’t you? I don’t think he was a kind person,” Flora said.

“I suppose that’s true,” Endeavour said.

Suddenly, a flicker passed over Flora’s face, as if she was already regretting some of what she said, as though she had shared too many secrets.

“We didn’t always use to be this way, you know. My father used to take us all to Christchurch Meadows, to look at the stars. He showed us all of the constellations. My father would be happy with her, happy with us, if she’d let him. It’s not our fault. Me and Matthew’s. We could all be happy. If she’d let us.”

“I know,” Endeavour said.

She seemed relieved. “I knew you would understand what I meant,” she said.

“Did you?” he asked.   

“Of course, I’ve read all your books, you know,” she said smartly.

Endeavour frowned, confused. “But . . .  I don’t write about anything like that.”

“Maybe you don’t think you do, but you do,” she said. “That’s what poetry’s for, isn’t it? To help us speak without talking?”  

“I suppose,” Endeavour said, slowly. And how could he disagree? It was just what he had said, after all, to Max in the garden. She certainly seemed to have given the matter quite a lot of thought.

 

“Is that what you would like to do? Be a poet?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said, promptly. “I mean, I suppose a few people get lucky, but there’s no money in it, is there?”

 

Endeavour had worried he was overstepping his bounds, that Flora was too young to be put on the spot, to be peppered with questions. But somehow, he had the distinct impression that Miss Humbolt had a lot more on the ball than he ever did.

 

Endeavour got up from the end of the chaise lounge. “Well,” he said. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Actually  . . . before you go . . .” Flora began.

“Yes?” Endeavour prompted.

“Well. I know it sounds awfully juvenile, but . . . Would you sign my books?”

 

 ********

Mrs. Trellis opened the front door without joy, without expectation, with the certain air that anyone on the other side was bound to be a disappointment.

And who could blame her?

She must have led a hard life to take a job like this. Endeavour would much rather sweep the streets; at least that way he’d have the chance to be alone with his own thoughts.

“Mrs. Winqvist is not in,” she said grimly.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you, If I could,” Endeavour said. “You see, the last time I was here. I noticed there was a bonfire. I’m curious as to what they might have been burning this time of year.”

Mrs. Trellis smiled, then—a smile so stiff it was as if she had forgotten such a thing could be done—and opened the door wide, allowing him to step inside.

 

Oh, yes, she’d be all too willing for him to come and have a poke around.

 

Endeavour crouched down and shifted through the ashes. He had been curious, that day he and Thursday were here, as to why someone would be burning something in the blush of summer. He had looked out the window, willing Thursday to look as well, but he hadn’t.

There was a time when Thursday would have instinctively followed his gaze, but the last time they had been at the Wingqvists’, he seemed to think that Endeavour had simply been daydreaming. As if Endeavour were hopelessly out to lunch, as if he couldn’t remember that Mondays once meant cheese and pickle.

And all was ashes, and all was a disappointment in the end.

 

And it was there, in the ashes: the handle to a handbag.

Who on earth burns a handbag?

He looked up at Mrs. Trellis, the question clear on his face.

“I recognize that,” she said, musingly. “It’s the handle to a handbag that I found the morning after the last party. I knew it wasn’t Mrs. Winqvists’s. She said it belonged to one of the guests.”

“Where did you find it?” Endeavour asked.

“Upstairs. Under one of the beds. You find all sorts, after one of their parties.”

“Quite a tidying job, I expect,” Endeavour said.

 

They had always left such a mess at Tony’s aunt’s country house, such a confusion of bottles and glasses and cigarette ends and damp towels cast off after a dip in the lake.

 

Mrs. Trellis eyed him meaningfully. “Usually,” she allowed.  

“But not this time?” Endeavour asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s usually like the last days of Sodom after one of their dos, but I came around Thursday morning, and there wasn’t a stick out of place.”

 

And who would have ever thought Bunny and Mrs. Trellis would have anything in common?

 

In Bunny’s letter to Tony, the one Thursday had let him read at the lake house, Bunny had wondered the same thing.

What might cause a group of thoroughly careless people to suddenly be so eager to clean up the mess they left behind them?  It was odd, wasn’t it, considering that usually they left a wreckage in their wake akin to the last days of Sodom?

Or to after a bacchanal?

 He stood up and brushed the ashes from his hands.

 

As he was leaving, Mrs. Trellis stopped him by a table in the hall. She lifted a glass fruit bowl containing a set of keys and looked at him, her expression impassive. “These keys have been here since the night of the party. No one has claimed them,” she said.

Endeavour silently took the keys and nodded as she closed the door behind him.

 

Out in the drive, he tested them in Adam Drake’s car.

They fit.

Just as Mrs. Trellis knew that they would all along.

**********

 “You’ve had a few phone calls, in,” Thursday said, with an aggrieved air.

“Oh?” Endeavour asked, as if he was not much interested, ignoring the rather clear implication that Thursday had been taking messages for him, as if Thursday was his former bagman, and not the other way around.

“Strange called with the results of the swab tests. Four tested positive for gun residue: Jeff Slayton, Hildy Slayton, and Mr. and Mrs. Gidby. No huge surprises there, they all admitted to as much,” Thursday said.

“Of course,” Endeavour replied. “They all handled the guns, they said. For the show.”

 

For the show. It was all a show, that set had been putting on.

 

“And then,” and here Thursday raised one wry eyebrow, “Mr. Bright called as well. He’s been looking into some reports, evidently, on Patricia Gidby. The make and model of the car that struck her is the same as the back end of Larry Humbolt’s car.  It must have been salvaged for the cut and shut, after the front half was damaged when it killed Patricia Gidby.”

 

DCI Box looked up from where he stood at a filing cabinet, right as Endeavour took up the piece of paper where Thursday had written Mr. Bright’s message.

 

“When the dealers offered to file the change of ownership, they must have done so fraudulently, making it look as if Larry Humbolt had always owned that car. Covering up the previous owner, the one involved in the accident,” Endeavour mused.

“Who is it?” Box asked.

“A known associate of Eddie Nero. Address in South Oxford,” Endeavour said absentmindedly. He was looking at the paper, but his thoughts were elsewhere, spiraling in circles like a wheel within a wheel.

 

And then, suddenly, the paper was lifted right from his hand.

 

“Great. I’ll let the ACC know that I’ve cracked it,” Box said, taking the paper and walking back into his office.

Endeavour stared after him in disbelief.

 

“How things are,” Thursday said, sagely. “They also serve.”

Endeavour could only shake his head. That was Thursday all over for you, these days. Just give up. Never cared anyway.

 

“Anyways, you got what you wanted,” Thursday said. “The cars are a match. Gidby saw the car at the studios, fixed the brakes in revenge for his wife’s death and then killed himself. And that’s that.”

 

And it was true: Flora had said that her mother had driven she and Matthew to the studio. It could all fit, then. Gidby had seen the car and cut the brakes.

 

But then . . . there was so much that that scenario did _not_ account for.

Too much.

 

“Yes, _that’s_ _that_ ,” Endeavour said scathingly. “Just another show.”

 

Thursday laughed. “ _You_ were the one digging around about the car! And then, when the evidence you yourself sought all points to Gidby, you decide to reject it out of hand? You wanted the puzzle piece to fit, and now that it fits, you’re still not happy?”  

“It fits too easily,” Endeavour said sullenly.  “And not easily at all.”

 

Thursday threw up his hands in exasperation.

 

“It does all point to Gidby. Because it was _meant_ to all point to Gidby. Because it’s a frame up,” Endeavour explained.

 “Or,” Thursday countered, “it might be exactly what it looks like.”

 

Morse rounded on him. “If Gidby, a middle-aged puppeteer, who neither Drake nor anyone in his set bothered to look twice at, is the one behind this, why is that crowd in such a fluster? Why is a perfectly rational girl setting fires? Why is a woman who can’t be bothered to pick her own _hair_ out of a _drain_ suddenly cleaning up after a party, even though she has a maid? Why would she _burn_ a _handbag_? Why did Adam Drake have Gabriel Van Horne’s car keys? Why did Adam Drake leave his own keys in the fruit bowl?”

“What handbag, what fruit bowl?” Thursday asked. “And who the hell is Gabriel Van Horne?”  

“I told you—it’s too late to try to explain it all to you now. But the most important point is this: Dr. DeBryn said Christine Chase was dead before she was even put into that car, dead of a single blow to the head. So whoever cut the brakes might be responsible for Adam Drake’s death. But not Christine Chase’s.”

And now, Endeavour’s voice was rising, because here was the crux of it all: “But who cares about her? If the theory explains the death of an Up-And-Coming Oxford Astrophysicist, then we’ve got what we came for haven’t we?”

 

And he couldn’t bear to be in the place another moment.

 

“Where are you going?” Thursday called.

 

“To get to the bottom of this!”

“On what authority?” Thursday asked.  

Endeavour strode back across the office to Thursday’s desk. “ _They also serve._ That’s what you said. And they take, too, don’t they sir? Why? Because they think they are owed! Well, maybe I’m owed, too! The hell if I’m not owed! And so is Christine Chase.”

“That won’t get you far, Morse. You’re here as a consultant,” Thursday said.

 

And Endeavour had had enough of that ridiculous fiction.

 

“I’m not here to be any _consultant_! I’m here because of that Machiavelli, Jim Strange! To get Castle Gate's numbers up.” He pointed wildly at Box's office. "As I just did!" 

 

And then Thursday dared to laugh at him.

 

“Don’t you laugh at me,” Endeavour snapped.  

 

“But Morse,” Thursday said, helplessly. “I’ve never known anyone to be less of a Machiavelli than Jim Strange. What can you be saying?”

But Endeavour shook his head. “Oh, he looks like so bland, so safe, so simple, does our Strange. Like there’s no wheels turning up there, but there are. Oh, there are! He _looks_ like he doesn’t know Lo Mein from the Tao Te Ching, but when it comes to his own career, he’s as unrelenting as Qin Shi Haung!”

”Sorry, I don’t speak Chinese,” Thursday said.  

“Then let me put it in simple English for you. Don’t underestimate Strange. He’ll be your governor someday. He’ll be running this whole _place_ someday!”

Endeavour spun on his heel and turned away.

“Morse?” Thursday boomed. “Where are you going?”

“To solve the case!” he said. And then he strode off, down the hall.

*********

 

Gabriel Van Horne’s office was deserted. It was the perfect chance to look around, to try to find the key to figuring this odd set out.

Endeavour slipped behind the shining, white, kidney-shaped desk and began opening drawers. In the bottom, was a series of tapes, labeled with initials—A.D., N.W., I. H.

 

Oh, this was all too easy.

 

_Never ending or beginning, like an ever spinning reel._

 

He shook his head slightly, to get that eerie song out of his mind. Then, he set up the first reel of tape and pushed play.

 

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Gabriel Van Horne asked.

 

Endeavour snorted. Van Horne was crafty, if nothing else, one supposed. Even after these people had discovered that he was nothing more than a charlatan, they would _still_ belong to him. 

 _What's the worst thing you've ever done?_ What a perfect question for a future occasion of blackmail.

 

"I don't want to talk about this now," Adam Drake said.

 

“From the outside, you could say I have the perfect life. Perfect husband. Perfect marriage. Perfect children. Perfect house. But when I wake up, I just want to scream,” Isobel Humbolt said.

 

And Flora was right. Isobel had chosen not to love them. Endeavour could well understand despair. But surely those bright voices in the back garden must mean _something_ to her?

 

“I love my wife,” Larry Humbolt said. “She’s enough for me. We used to be happy, I thought. We used to take the kids to Christchurch Meadows, to look at the stars.”

 

It was just like something out of George Meredith’s _Modern_ _Love_. It made sense now why someone in this set might be reading it.

 

_This was the woman. What of the man? But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel, he shall be crushed until he cannot feel. Or, being callous, happly till he can._

 

“Isobel was bored,” Natalie Wingqvist said. “It was she who thought of drawing the keys out of the fruit bowl. Adds an element of surprise. You flirt half the night, but you never know until the drawing who it is you’ll be sleeping with.”

 

_Each sucked a secret. And each wore a mask._

 

And Christine turned around and looked over her shoulder, but Adam was laughing, and Pagan turned around and looked over his shoulder, but Susan was laughing. And what have I gotten myself into? And don't be so middle class, and who's 'awfully square' now?  

And it doesn’t mean anything. They were just bored. 

 

 

Endeavour stilled for a moment.  He thought that he had heard a sound outside the door. 

He pushed pause and listened, but there was nothing. He pushed the button again, allowing the tape to resume.

 

“It was just a bit of sport,” Adam Drake said. “To tell the truth, Hildy makes my skin crawl."

 

And that was a new name in the mix . . . Hildy . . . Hildy Slatyon?

 

"She’s taken to following me out to my car. Dropping by the flat at night. Leaving little gifts. She left a volume of poems in my pocket. _Modern Love._ Dear God, she must be desperate.”

 

And in his arrogance, he never thought to read the thing. It’s a poem of jealousy and bitterness and anger as much as of love. What he took as a devotion, she might have meant as something else, entirely. 

 

“It’s love. It’s fulfillment. Adam and I are going to run away together,” Isobel Humbolt said.

"If it were anyone else," Larry Humbolt said. "But Adam was my friend. I was his tutor, for God's sake." 

 

_We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn; My friend being third._

 

 

“Well. I told her,” Adam Drake said. “Hildy made a great scene, as always. Hell hath no fury.”

 

_Perhaps my heart may pardon you this deed: But be no coward—you that made Love bleed, You must bear all the venom of the serpent’s tooth._

 

And then Drake said the words that made Endeavour’s blood run cold. Because it all made sense, didn’t it?

 

“I wouldn’t put anything past that one,” Adam Drake said.  

 

 

“Excuse me?” a voice said.

Endeavour looked up, and there he was, Gabriel Van Horne.

“What is it that you think you are doing here?” he asked. “What have you been doing with my tapes?”

 

Endeavour hit the stop button on the tape player with a decisive click.

“When I was here the other day,” he said, “I tried the keys that were found with Adam Drake’s body in the door of your car. And they fit. Do you care to explain how he came by them?”

Van Horne, instead of looking dismayed, simply smiled. “I was wondering about that. What’s a poet doing, asking after a murder? I wondered. So I called over at Thames Valley. You’ve been called on as a consultant only, it seems. You have no right to be here.”

 

The hell he did. Endeavour stood up abruptly. “I have every right,” he said.

 

Van Horne held up his hands, as if Endeavour were in need of calming, and then sadly shook his head. “I’m sorry. But when I saw you were in here, I’m afraid I had no choice but to call the police. Breaking and entering. Impersonating an officer. It's an awful shame really. So caught up in your delusions. I could have helped you, you know.”

“What’s this?” Endeavour asked.

 

“Don’t worry yourself,” he said, in that same false, gentle voice he had used on the tapes. “I’m sure they’ll go easy on you. Everyone understands that you aren’t quite in your right mind. I’m sure you’ll just be taken to be evaluated. I’m sure you won’t go back to prison.”

 

Endeavour saw through this all too clearly—this was all to get a rise. The man was probably hoping that he would strike him. Wouldn’t that be a convenient distraction?

 

“Mr. Van Horne,” Endeavour said. “I need to ask you about the night of the Wingqvuist’s party. I know you were there. Adam Drake had your keys. And . . . and you had his, didn't you? He didn’t realize you had left them in the fruit bowl before you left. He thought you still had them. That's why he couldn’t take his car, why he took Larry Humbolt's instead.”

 

“No,” Van Horne said. “No. I don’t have to answer any of this. You don’t have a warrant. The police are already on the way. And I have a quite a few complaints I’ll be eager to file against you.”

 

Endeavour faltered. Because. . . . Oh, hell. He really didn't have a warrant card, did he? Thursday was right. He had no authority to be here. 

 

Van Horne smiled again, as if he read his thoughts. “The only one of us about to be arrested is you. Hmmmm?” he asked.

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Thursday said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Endeavour just adopt Mr. Bright as a grandfather, now? I'm not sure what he would make of he and Bix. I think they sort of flew under the radar the last time they stopped by. Or maybe Mr. Bright is just too reticent to say anything either way!


	7. "How did you know?"

“Morse,” Thursday said, tossing a small, blue cardstock square onto Van Horne’s desk so that it landed with a dull smack, directly in front of him. “You forgot your warrant card, again. What did I tell you about leaving it down at the station?”

 

Endeavour looked at it, perplexed. What was Thursday on about? Of course, Thursday must know only too well that the thing had gone out of date years ago.

“But it’s not rea . . .” he began.

 

But Thursday cut him off, rounding on Van Horne.

“And I’ll thank you to answer Constable Morse’s question; Perhaps you’d care to explain how Adam Drake came to be found with _your_ keys on his body? I’ve spoken to the Humbolts. I know you attended a party at the Wingquists’ on Wednesday night. What happened to Christine Chase? Did she change her mind?”

Van Horne looked utterly nonplussed. “And who said she was my date? Who said _I_ was responsible for the silly little chit?” He huffed with impatience. “I don’t need to answer for some nobody from nowhere. Nor do I have to answer any questions without my brief. I know my rights.”

Thursday took off his hat and placed it on the desk next to Endeavour’s old warrant card. “Oh. Is that right?”

“Yes. That’s right,” Van Horne said.

 

Thursday sighed. “I don’t know what it is you people have been getting up to. But we’ve got two kids now, gone missing as a result of this mess, so I’ll thank you if you could be direct.”

 

“Flora and Matthew?” Endeavour interjected.

 

But Thursday ignored him; his dark eyes were trained carefully on Van Horne’s face.

 

“That’s none of my affair, either,” Van Horne snorted. “If people are foolish enough as to go against their own self-interest and procreate, it’s their responsibility to look after their offspring, not mine. If they are incapable of doing so, they shouldn’t have bred in the first place.”

 

Thursday began to slowly flush red under his already darkened face.

 

Endeavour furrowed his brow, bemusedly. “He makes Flora and Matthew sound almost like toad spawn. What a . . .”

 

"Morse," Thursday said, cutting him off again.

 

"So," he continued, still watching Van Horne. "I take it that means you aren't planning to cooperate, then."

“This is ridiculous!” Van Horne replied, evidently surmising that the best defense is a good offense. “I am a well-known author, a well-respected therapist. And I have a complaint of my own to register. This lunatic has broken into my office and has been going through my confidential files. What are you going to do about that? Hmmmmm?”

“Warrant card’s right there,” Thursday said, with a grim nod to the desk.

“Let’s take a look at it, shall we? Hmmmmm? See when it was issued. He’s as much of a detective constable as I am, I’ll wager.”

 

Endeavour sighed.

Because, well, on this point, at least, the pompous arse was right.

 

“Well,” Endeavour began heavily, “He does have a . . . “

 “Morse!” Thursday boomed.

 

Endeavour raised his eyebrows at the sudden outburst.

 

Thursday reached into his pocket, his dark face thoughtful, and pulled out his pipe. Then he reached into his other pocket and stopped short.

 

“Morse,” he said. “I need you to go out to the car. I forgot my tobacco.”

 

Endeavour remained where he was, looking at him in frank disbelief. Surely, Thursday realized the wasn’t _that_ green anymore. He hadn’t fallen for the “I forgot my tobacco” line since their very first case.

 

“Don’t just sit there,” Thursday said. “Get going. We’ve got to get on with things. I have a report I need you to type up when we get back to the nick.”

“A _report?_ ” Endeavour asked, incredulously. It certainly wasn’t his job to type up reports anymore.

“A report about what?” he asked.

“A disciplinary on a constable, you might know,” he said. Thursday looked at Van Horne and shook his head sadly. “These idealistic young constables—for years, they follow the law to the letter, give you a pain in the arse over every perceived deviation-–and then, before you know it, they’re stealing book satchels out of evidence and going about commandeering police cars without authorization.”

 

Endeavour looked at Thursday coldly.

 

So, Endeavour wasn’t one to judge anymore.

All right. Point taken.

 

“Fine,” Endeavour said. He got up from Van Horne’s desk with as much dignity as he could muster and went out the door. As he half-closed it behind him, he heard Thursday’s familiar rumble.

“So. Let’s try the question, again, shall we? Now, about the girl . . .”

 

As soon as Endeavour opened the front door, he was glad that Thursday had sent him away. It was a welcome relief, stepping out of the cold and clinical “Enlightenment Center” and out into the light of the summertime world. The trees were in full leaf, so that every breath of breeze that stirred through the greenness made a noise like a whisper, like the rush of surf upon the beach. Endeavour stood on the steps for a moment and listened to it, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, breathing in the warm air, heavy with the scent of lilacs.

The world could be such a confusing place. It was a mystery to him as to why anyone would pay to go into that place, to scream in a white room. Why would they want to spew their darkest thoughts into a tape recorder, when they could just stand here instead, and feel the sun, and breathe fresh air as lavender as lilacs, and listen to the silence of the leaves stirring in the wind?

Endeavour shrugged. He would never understand people. He’d choose an afternoon in Max’s garden over this terrifying place any day of the week.

Oh, well.

His was not to reason why. Not anymore. Best to get on with the pantomime.

He walked over to Thursday’s black police Jag and opened the door, blinking as a wave of heat swelled out like a fist, out of the dark interior. Once he weathered the initial blast, he popped down behind the steering wheel.

And. Well.  

Would wonders never cease?

Thursday had been telling the truth.

Here it was, the package of tobacco, right in the console.

He had been so sure that Thursday had made the whole thing up so that he could knock Van Horne about a bit. He could tell that the man’s arrogant bearing was annoying Thursday no end. And that dig against parenting children, he thought, might have proven to be the final straw.

 

Endeavour took the packet and went back into the building, through the white door that he had left half-open behind him.

Even though everything in the place was white, it was dark compared to the world outside, and, for a moment, Endeavour couldn’t see properly; for a moment, his eyes swam with circles of purple and green.

“Sir?” Endeavour called.

He stopped short as he came into the room and blinked, unsure, for a moment, as to what he was seeing.

Van Horne’s hand was covering his face, a flow of red just beginning to show from under the outside edge of his palm.

 

“Ah, there you are, Morse,” Thursday said. “Mr. Van Horne has just come over with a nosebleed, it seems. But I think he’s ready to answer a few questions now. Have you got your notebook?”

“Yes,” Endeavour said, glumly. So, it was all a ruse. He’d been taken in, after all.

 

And Thursday knew damn well he always had his notebook.

He got it out slowly and sullenly, radiating his disapproval for Thursday’s tactics, but Thursday just watched him as he got out his things, blithely, as if he couldn’t care less.

 

As soon as Endeavour had notebook and pen ready, Thursday turned back to Van Horne. “So,” Thursday said. “What happened, exactly, the night of the party?”

“I drew Adam Drake’s keys from the fruit bowl,” Van Horne said, heavily, from behind his hand. “That meant I was entitled to sleep with whichever girl Drake brought to the party. It was how the game worked.”  

“So, you went upstairs, then, with Christine Chase?” Thursday prompted.

“She said she was feeling a bit woozy,” Van Horne said, no longer trying to deny it. “She went off for a drink of water. When she didn’t come back, I went looking for her. But when I found her, she was dead. On the stairs. She must have hit her head.”

“Nobody heard anything?” Thursday asked.

“I suppose they were all otherwise engaged,” Endeavour supplied. He raised his eyes, then, from his notes to Van Horne. “Why didn’t you call for an ambulance?”

“She was dead. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

“So, you scarpered and left everyone else to clear up your mess,” Thursday said, rumbling with contempt.  

“She was Adam’s date. Hmmmm? So I called a cab."

“Because you didn’t want to explain why you were leaving in such a hurry,” Endeavour said.  “And, unluckily for you, Drake had pulled your keys from the fruit bowl.”

 

Van Horne nodded.

 

“And you left Drake’s keys in the bowl,” Endeavour continued. “Drake didn’t’ think to look for them there—he thought you must still have had them— and that’s why he took Larry Humbolt’s car.”

 

“They are all so deep in your mumbo-jumbo, you knew they’d cover for you,” Thursday said.  

“It’s more than that,” Endeavour added. “ _Girl dies in Oxford orgy?_ Hard for reputations to survive that sort of headline, let alone academic careers.”

Van Horne raised his chin, looking down at Endeavour superciliously. “Although I guess yours survived just fine. Weren’t there such headlines about your friends, if I recall, just a few years ago?”

 

Thursday collected his hat from off the white desk.  

 

“All, right,” Thursday rumbled. “Enough of that, I think. Get your coat. We’ll continue this down at the station.”  

 

“Sir?” Endeavour asked, picking up the tape recorder. “Should we take this? It’s got the full story right here.”

“Of course, we’re taking it,” Thursday said, as if there was never any doubt.

Endeavour shrugged one shoulder at the curt reply. He had thought it was only prudent to ask. Thursday was the one, after all, whose warrant card was valid.

Endeavour took the tape recorder and the tapes, and then he stuffed them with his notebook into his satchel.

 

He couldn’t wait to get into the station to unload it.

 

Not only did the things render his satchel as heavy as a bag of stones—but he didn’t much like all of their words mixed up, resting so closely to his.

 

*********

 

Thursday cuffed Van Horne and settled him in the back seat, while Endeavour got behind the wheel. As soon as Thursday sank into the passenger seat, Endeavour turned the key. The black police Jag rumbled to life.

 

“Then who do you suppose fixed the brakes on the Humbolts’ car?” Thursday asked, as Endeavour pulled away from the curb.  

“It was Hildy Slayton, sir,” Endeavour supplied. “She was in love with Adam Drake. When she heard of his affair with Isobel Humbolt, she cut the brakes on her car. She knew the back end of Isobel’s car was a match to the car that killed Gidby’s wife—that she would be able to pin the murder on Gidby.”

“So, what, then? You think she killed Gidby, too?”

“She was one of the four people whose hands tested positive for gun residue,” Endeavour reminded him. “Yes, I think she did.”

“Christ,” Thursday said.

 

 

Just then, the radio cut on.

“Sir, we’ve just had a message in from the information room,” Constable Tyler said. “Mr. Humbolt called in. He said that his wife left him a note, telling him that the police had called her to tell her that we’d found the children. And that she’s to collect them at Heaviside Studios.”

 _“What?”_ Thursday asked in disbelief.

“He wondered, sir, why the police would instruct her to meet them at the studios of all places,” Tyler said.  

 

 

Endeavour scowled. Well might he wonder. Who had called, really? Was this some sort of set-up, a trap?

 

 

“That’s simple enough, Constable,” Thursday said. “The answer is because we didn’t.”

 

“You don’t think Hildy Slatyon has the children, do you, sir?” Endeavour asked.

“Probably, she just heard they are missing on the wireless. Decided it was the perfect thing to use as bait.”

 

Thursday turned his face back toward the radio. “Tell Mr. Humbolt we’re are on our way to the studio now to straighten this out,” he said.  

“Yes, sir,” Constable Tyler said.

 

“All right, Morse,” Thursday said. “Let’s make good time.”

“Sir?”

“We’ve got to get over there. You can go a bit faster than this, Morse.”  

“What about me?” Van Horne bleated. “Can’t you drop me by the station at least, first? I don’t want to get mixed up in this.”

“You _are_ mixed up in this. Little late for that,” Thursday said without sympathy. 

 

Endeavour tried to comply, lowering his foot onto the gas. He hands tightened around the wheel until his palms felt damp against the hot, dark leather.

 

It was certain that Hildy Slayton would not hesitate to lure Isobel Humbolt to the dark studios—it was the perfect place for a murder. No one at any of the surrounding businesses would bat an eye at the sound of the gunshot; all would assume it was just a part of a performance.

 

 But might she have even grander plans of revenge? Might she somehow have lured Flora and Matthew there, as well?

 

Endeavour lowered his foot on the gas further and tried running that eerie song he had heard through his head; it was an awful song, really— he wasn’t sure why he kept casting back to it. But it was in English, at least.

 

_Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own_

_Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone_

_Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream_

_Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream_

_Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind._

 

 

“Morse can’t you go a little faster? What’s the matter with you?”

 

But he was afraid to go any faster.  If he went faster, the door would be revolving, the world would be whirling silently in space—even now, he couldn’t stop the windmills from spinning. Because this whole affair was just like that convoluted sonnet cycle.

_"Their hearts held cravings for the buried day. Then each applied to each that fatal knife, deep questioning which probes to endless dole."_

He’d turn in a wide circle, and go right onto default mode, as if he were at home, as if he were in France, where he supposed he belonged now. He’d take an arc of a turn and end up on the right side of the road, directly into incoming traffic. Bix was right: he could kill someone.

 

Endeavour hit the brakes and blurted out, “I can’t!”

“What the hell, Morse? Why are you stopping?”

“I can’t.”

“What’s this?”

“I got my license revoked.”

_“What?”_

“I got my license revoked. Months and months ago. Only I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Oh, for Chrissake’s,” Thursday grumbled, swinging his large frame out of the car. “Well, don’t just sit there. Get out, quick, and we’ll change places.”

Thursday slammed the passenger side door shut and came around the car as Endeavour got out and went around the other way. Then he threw himself behind the wheel, muttering darkly under his breath.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Endeavour said.

“You do beat all, Morse,” Thursday said.

 

*********

 

 “Where are they? Why in God’s name would the police bring them here?” a voice cried.

Endeavour and Thursday looked at one another; it was the voice of Isobel Humbolt, echoing through the dark and cavernous studio.

 

There was a murmur, then, of another female voice.

 

“But they telephoned me!” Isobel shouted in reply.

 

Endeavour and Thursday followed the direction of the voices, until they came to the large studio with the towering puppet stage. There, Hildy Slatyon, her unnaturally white-blonde hair glowing under the stage lights, stood holding a gun, which she held squarely trained on Isobel Humbolt.

 

“No, that was me calling, Mrs. Humbolt,” Hildy Slatyon said. “Or may I call you Isobel? I feel as if I know you.”

 

Isobel said nothing; she remained silent for once, as she stood before the barrel of the gun.

Endeavour started to run forward, but Thursday put his hand down, holding him back. He was right. In cases like this, timing was everything.

 

“Hildegard Slayton,” Hildy said. “Hildy? Perhaps he mentioned me? “

“ _Who_ mentioned you?” Isobel asked.

“Adam,” Hildy said.

“What? _Adam_?” Isobel asked. It was clear she had no idea as to who Hildy was or what she was on about.

 

“I didn’t mind about Christine and the other young ones,” Hildy Slayton said.  “Well,” she amended, “of course I _minded_ , but I knew they were just nothing. But you? You were different.”

Isobel shook her head, her eyes beginning to well with tears. “I don’t understand,” she choked.  

“I’m the other woman. The _other_ , other woman. The one that _meant_ something to him,” Hildy said, adding pointedly, “until _you_ came along.”

 

She shot the gun then, at Isobel’s’ feet.

 

“Please! Please! I didn’t know!” Isobel cried.  

“Adam didn’t love you. He was doing it to get at your husband. Once he got bored of that, he was going to drop you,” Hildy said scathingly.

“That’s not true,” Isobel said.  

“He told me. Every word. Adam hated you. Both of you. But you most of all,” Hildy said with relish.

 

The woman was mad. She was completely ensnared in the trap of her own delusions. Hildy Slayton would never believe the truth.  And now, with Drake—the object of her obsession—gone, she was even more dangerous. What, after all, did she have to lose?

The only way she’d see the truth was if Drake told her the truth himself.

 

But, of course, a dead man couldn’t speak.

 

Then, Endeavour’s hand settled on the bulk of the satchel slung over his shoulder.

 

Or could he?

 

Endeavour pulled the recorder out of his bag and searched frantically for an outlet. Why couldn’t he find one? You would think there would be many, what with all of the lights and heavy equipment in the place.

Finally, he located one in the corner. He dropped to his knees, plugged in the recorder and pushed play.

 

Adam Drake’s cold voice echoed through the sound stage.

 

_“It was only a bit of sport. You want to know the truth about Hildy? She makes my flesh crawl. I wouldn’t put anything past that one.”_

 

Hildy Slayton froze in place, her hand still firm on the gun, as Thursday stepped forward out of the shadows.

 

“He was good at everything,” Hildy said, looking as if she had been slapped from beyond the grave. “Even cruelty.”

“You don’t deny it then? Your affair with Adam Drake?” Thursday asked.

“Deny it? I would have screamed it from the rooftops. And so, once, would he. Until she came along and stole my happiness,” she said.

 

 _Stole her happiness?_ The woman was far, far gone.  _"And they had suffered shipwreck with the ship. And gazed upon him sallow from the shore."_ Hildy Slatyon didn't know that happiness wasn’t a thing that you find or lose. That it's something closer to forgiveness.

 

Like when you decide to forgive someone for stealing your words and sending them off to some stranger. Because, maybe, just perhaps, it turns out that you love him.

 

“You cut the brakes on Isobel Humbolt’s car,” Thursday said. “But you couldn’t have known that instead of Isobel driving, it would be the man you loved.”

Endeavour pushed stop on the recorder, rose from where he was kneeling, and came to stand along Thursday. “Eric Gidby told you he had seen the car that had struck his wife. So, you killed him and made it look like suicide.”

“It was the only way. It was the only way to get _rid_ of her. She stole it all. She stole my happiness.”

 

“Put the gun down,” Thursday said.

And, with trembling hands, Hildegard Slayton did.

****************

 

Thursday and Endeavour took Hildy Slatyon and Isobel Humbolt out to the black Jag, so that Thursday could call in for a second car.

Gabriel Van Horne, still handcuffed in the back seat, watched the procession with interest.

“Everything comes full circle,” Van Horne mused, with an otherworldly air. “Such is life. A circle within a circle, a karmic wheel within a wheel.”

“Oh, why don’t you shut up,” Isobel snapped.

 

It was probably the only time in his life Endeavour would ever find himself in agreement with Isobel Humbolt.

 

Isobel turned to Thursday, then, before she got into the car. “But if they aren’t here, where are Flora and Matthew?” she said. 

“I think I know where the children might be,” Endeavour said. “I’ll find them. I’ll go now.”

 

You would think she might be relieved, but instead, she flashed him a dark look, as if somehow this was all _his_ fault.

 

 She certainly was a turbulent, inscrutable person.

 

But Thursday was looking impatient with him, too. “You’re not going to . . .”

“No,” Endeavour said. “I’ll call Bix.” Endeavour ran his hand along the damp curls at the back of his nape. “He’ll probably be wondering where I am . . . once he sees my car is gone.”

Thursday snorted at that.

 

As soon as uniform arrived to assist Thursday, Endeavour headed down the cracked sidewalk to the red call box on the corner.  For a moment, he almost started dialing Turner, as if on automatic. Then he stopped.

It was a strange feeling, dialing his own phone number. It rang a few times before Bixby answered.

“Bixby,” Bix said.  

“Bix?” he asked. “It’s Endeavour. Are you . . . are you busy right now?”

 

*********

By the time Joan reached Heaviside Studios with Viv Wall, her father was tucking several people into a police car, and two officers in uniform were on the scene. She watched curiously as she stepped out of Ms. Wall's car, looking for any sign of the children. Her father’s broad back, bent as he talked to the people inside, blocked her view of the back seat of the black Jag. When he straightened, she realized the children were nowhere to be seen.

She also realized, as her father stood, that he seemed taller somehow than he had in past months, that his eyes looked sharper, less weary.

Well, it was clear he was happy to be working with Morse again.

God only knew why.

 

Speaking of whom, there he was, down the sidewalk, leaning against a call box, his hair wild and red-gold in the light of the falling sun, with those ridiculously expensive-looking sunglasses tucked on top of his head.

She hurried over to him, Ms. Wall following a few steps behind.  “Are the children here?” she asked. “Anywhere?”

“No,” Morse said. “I think I know where they are, though.”

“You do? Where?”

“Chirstchurch Meadows.”

“Christchurch Meadows? Why there?”

Morse shrugged, pointedly taciturn on how he might have gathered this information.

Joan shook her head in frustration. Why did he always have to be so bloody inscrutable? He probably couldn’t name one movie playing now at the cinema, but somehow he was so sure of his unfathomable, intuitive leap, that he seemed infuriatingly calm, despite the fact that two children were missing.

“You do beat all, Morse.”

“I haven’t anything to do with this, Miss Thursday,” he said.

“Haven’t you? I warned you about questioning those kids.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How do you know that I visited Flora?”

“Her mother told me. Her mother hates your books, you know. So Flora was flaunting it a bit, that she’d had her copies autographed.”

“Oh,” Morse said.

“Yes. _Oh_ ,” Joan said. “Next time you don’t want to make it obvious as to where you’ve been, try not leaving your autograph behind, all right, Mr. Poet of the Year?” She pointed down the street to where her father and the uniformed officers stood talking. “Is _this_ why you came asking after her?”

Morse shrugged again. “Sometimes you've got to throw a stone into the pool, stir the silt.

“And never mind who gets hurt? They are _children_!” 

“They aren’t in any danger. It’s not the first time a child has run away from home. And, as I said, I know where they are.”

 

Ms. Wall looked him up and down, appraisingly, then said, with her customary aplomb, “Then what are you standing here for?”

 

Morse looked at her uncertainly. “I’m waiting for my ride.” Then he stepped out, closer to the road. “Here he is.”

 

There was the rumble, then, of a purring engine and the crunch of gravel along the curb. Joan followed Morse’s gaze.

 

It was the man she had met at the fair, the one in the photographs of her parents’ trip to France.

He pulled up in a bright blue Jag convertible, one arm resting comfortably on the door, his other hand steering at the top of the wheel. As he slowed to a stop, his full mouth rolled into a smile, and his dark eyes shone with amusement, as if they were going off on a jaunt to the country with a picnic hamper and a bottle of wine.

 

“Hello, there, Josephine. Did you get ticketed?” he called, brightly.

“No,” Morse said, in his low and mournful voice.

Bixby’s smile broadened, as if Morse had gotten away with something. “Where’s your car?”

“I left it at that Institute. At that mad, screaming place.”

Bixby nodded at this, as if he knew what on earth Morse meant.  

 

The exchange made no sense to Joan. Nothing about them made sense, in fact.

 

Everything about Bixby seemed smooth and easy. Whereas everything about Morse, Joan knew only too well, was awkward and difficult. Bixby was all flash, Morse a steady, relentless beam. It was hard to imagine what they had in common.

 

She didn’t get it.

 

But then again, who was she to say?  The last man she was with—the one she had been living with when Morse had run into her at the boutique last summer— was so horribly awful, that she had sworn off the whole game for a while, deciding to put her career first for once.

“Where are we going?” Bixby asked.  

Joan exchanged looks with her boss, who shrugged and opened the back door of the car.

Viv Wall was one of those women who gave the impression that she had seen it all. That there was nothing else left on heaven and earth that could surprise her.

“Christchurch Meadows,” Ms. Wall said.

********

 

The sky was beginning to darken, purpling at the horizon. The grass, the trees and the distant steeples were all reduced to the color of shadows. In the darkness, Joan could just make out the silhouettes of two children stargazing on a bench.

 

Joan broke into a run, hurrying over, and heard the others following in her wake.

 

The children looked up at the sound.

 

“We’ve been worried about you,” Joan said.

“Am I in trouble?” Flora asked.

“No,” Morse said, coming alongside of her. “No.”

“Are _they?_ ” she asked, pointedly.

Joan looked to Morse for an answer. He said nothing, only shrugged one shoulder, but it was as good as a confirmation.

Flora took his reaction in stride. Perhaps it was best, allowing her to know the truth.

“I knew something bad was going to happen,” Flora said, wearily. “I thought grown-ups were meant to be grown up.”

“They are, usually,” Morse said.

“But not _her_. She’s so involved in her own adult mess. I don’t know what they’ve done. But please don’t split us up. Matty needs me.”

“No one is even talking about that. I promise you,” Ms. Wall said.

 

Flora looked at Morse, her eyes sharp in the starlight.  

“How did you know?”

“I don’t know. I just did,” Morse said. “You said you were happy here, once.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve been reading. According to Cherokee myths, there was a race called the Moon-Eyed People. They called them that because they didn’t see well in daylight. Their eyes were more suited to the night. Maybe you are one of them.”

 

She said it solemnly enough, but Bixby rippled into low and quiet laughter. “That might be,” he said. “They’re said to be pale and to have large, blue eyes.” His mouth curved into a smile. “And to speak their own, unique language. That’s certainly Endeavour. Although he’s wandered quite a far bit east of the Appalachians, I’d say.”

“How do you know about it?” Matthew piped up. “Are you Cherokee?”

Bixby shrugged. “Well, my great-uncle always said he was a quarter, which would make me one-sixteenth, I suppose.” He winked. “But you always had to take a lot of what he said with a grain of salt.’

“ _Really?_ ” Matthew asked.

“Of course not,” Flora said. “He’s English. He’s teasing you.”

 

“Oh,” Matthew said. Then he turned to her. “Miss? Flora says we might get new parents." He looked hopefully from her to Morse. "Can we live with you?”

“They’re not married,” Flora said, answering Matthew’s question again, as if she were used to it, as if she didn’t even entertain the idea that an adult might do so. “They’re just friends.”

 

“No," Matthew said, nodding to Morse and Bixby. "I meant them." 

Flora’s face clouded with uncertainty.  “They can’t be married,” she said, gently.

“Why not?” Matthew asked.

 

Joan stole a look back at Morse and Bixby, and it was difficult to tell which face held the most surprise. Wide and solemn blue eyes met bright and irreverent dark ones, and, in that moment, somehow, they made sense to her, after all. It was as if someone in an observatory somewhere had swerved a telescope focused on empty space a degree to the left, and suddenly picked up on a quasar.  

“Flora, why not?” Matthew said.

“Come on,” Ms. Wall said, bundling them off to the car.  “Let’s get you into the warm.”

 

**************

As Thursday turned off the main highway, he couldn’t help but remember the first time that this stretch of road cutting through the firs had become a familiar one.

While his previous visits to Lake Silence had hinged on some matter or another pertaining to the murder of Edmund Corcoran, on that visit, he realized, he had another motivation in mind.

He realized that he simply wanted to talk to Morse.

After years of working with DS Lott, he had become accustomed to operating alone, knowing full well he couldn’t trust his cunning and underhanded bagman.

But, having Morse installed in Lott’s place slowly began to bring back to him the echo of days he had long forgotten—of desert days spent alongside the lads he knew in North Africa, the lads for whom he would have given his life—and who he knew would have given their lives for him just as quickly in return.

Somewhere along the way, the prickly DC—who could raise his blood pressure in an instant—had become more than a colleague. More even than a trusted confidant. Somewhere along the line, through the stakeouts and inquires, he had become a friend. A son, almost, with whom he could talk about all the things he didn’t want to put on Sam’s shoulders.

 

With a final turn, he pulled up into the long, circular drive. As he passed along the sweeping curve that ran through a stand of dark trees, his attention was caught by a flash of speed and light in his peripheral vision. He glanced out over the lake and saw the splash of bright water fly up, the wake of a sleek red hydroplane, spraying up into the sun.

 

Thursday got out of the car and started walking to the back of the house, where Morse, no doubt, would be scowling on that glider at the back of the garden.

 

And he approached, his pace slowed—there were three hydroplanes today, he noticed. It was Bix on the red one—even from this vantage point, the man’s dark hair and flash of a white smile were clearly visible. But there was also a lanky dark-haired youth on a green one, and closer to the far shore, a girl on a blindingly purple one; Thursday watched as she idled the engine for a moment before shooting out across the water with a speed that sent her long brown hair flying out behind her, so that it almost looked as if it grew horizontally.

Thursday hesitated, but then he saw Morse on the glider, turned sideways, so that he was leaning against the supporting beam, his long legs stretched over the cushions.

 

Thursday headed over.

 

“Morse,” he said, as he approached.

Morse, without looking up from his book, moved his feet inwards, freeing one side of the glider for Thursday to sit.

Thursday pulled his trousers up slightly at the knee, to preserve the crease, and then sank into the weathered cushion. He looked over at Morse expectantly, but he, evidently, had no further greeting. He was looking sourly into his book, but his eyes weren’t moving.

 

“To think,” he said at last, “that their parents were happy to hear we were coming to Britain so that there would responsible adults here, should anything happen.”

“ _Has_ anything happened?” Thursday asked. “Any lost passports or so forth?”

“No,” Morse said. “They just came for the weekend.”

“Hmmmmm,” Thursday said.

Someone gunned the engine, and Morse’s scowl deepened.

It was an odd turning of the world. The first time Thursday had sat here, Morse had built up such walls around him, Thursday feared he might choose to isolate himself in his strange exile for the rest of his days. Now, it was he, Thursday, who was more alone than he had ever been in his life, and Morse . . . well . . . it was almost as if he was a father of a family. He had Bix, and even though he wasn’t technically old enough to be Esme and Guillaume’s father, he did seem to figure in their lives as some sort of figure in that stead.

 

At the very least, they seemed to think enough of him that they had come for the weekend.

Sam—Sam had just been so busy, getting everything in order before he left for Germany. Even on the few free evenings he had, though, before he left, he spent going out to the pub, saying his goodbyes to his friends.

But, at least, if he ever were allowed home for a visit, Thursday felt sure things might be as they had always been between them.

 

But Joan. Nothing was ever the same between them since the robbery, since she had run off. There was a distance, a mistrust there that he didn’t know how to bridge, how to repair.

 

And Win. Well. It was looking more and more as if they might be over for good.  

 

Thursday sighed and leaned back into the cushions, stretching his legs before him. Morse continued pretending to read. Thursday took in the pale face, and it seemed to him strange, that the person in whom he had found the most forgiveness was possibly the most unforgiving person who he had ever met. He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such loyalty. 

 

Sam might be away, but one son, of sorts, remained to him. Sometimes the family you find can grow just as dear as the family you’re born to.

So, that would make him a bit of a grandfather, albeit once removed.

 

Well. Might was well get into practice, on the off-chance Joan or Sam ever decided to settle down.

 

“Oh, Morse,” he said. “Let the kids be. It’s just a bit of fun. Maybe you should try it for yourself.”

“I know it’s fun,” Morse said. “I _have_ tried it. I just don't think we should allow Esme and Guillaume to risk their lives, at their age, that's all." 

 

Thursday raised his brows in surprise and leaned forward, looking around by the dock for a fourth hydroplane. “Where’s yours?” he asked.

“Well,” Morse conceded. “I don’t have my own. But I’ve driven Bixby on his.”

 

Thursday surpassed a huff of laughter. Privately, he thought that was for the best.  Bix, no doubt, spent the entire ride with his hand two inches from the emergency cut-off lever.

 

Thursday sat back again. And the world was like a wheel, wasn’t it? Four years, and their positions on it had completely reversed. And somehow, he needed to admit it, to acknowledge the truth of what his life had become.

 

“Win’s stepping out with a solicitor,” he said.

 

Morse lowered the book, and, at once, all of the color seemed to drain from his face. _“What?_ ”  

Thursday sighed. “It’s my fault. I showed her that envelope. I tried to get her to believe that I had gotten the money back from Charlie.”

“Oh, _sir_ ,” Morse groaned.

It was galling, being criticized on the way he handled his relationship with Win by Morse of all people. Morse, who had such a track record of simply leaving his things and disappearing when things went south.

But it was humbling, too. And deservedly so. Because it was even more galling to realize that Morse was right.

He cringed now at the memory, at the cajoling way in which he had tried to convince Win that all had been repaired so easily. It seemed good to admit it, that he had sank that low, as if he was exorcising it from himself, as if he was digging deep into his skin, as if to draw out the poison.

 

“I told her she could buy the new oven she’s been wanting.”

 

Morse let the book drop and buried his face in his long, narrow hands, as if he were a car crash that he couldn’t bear to look at.

“Oh, _sir._ An _oven_? Oh, God.”   

Morse’s brand of theater made the whole, humiliating incident seem funny now, and he chuckled at Morse’s despair.  What else could he do? If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry.

 

“And I told her she could buy a new frock or two.”

 

Morse, still hiding his face, shook his head mutely.

“So, it was all in vain, after all. My just deserts, I suppose,” Thursday said. “I gave Ronnie the bleeding thing back.”

Morse lowered his hands cautiously. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Thursday said.

 

For a long while, they said nothing; the silence broken only by the movement of the air in the summer trees, the roar of the hydroplanes, and distant, cheerful calls in French.

“Well,” Morse said at last. “I still think you should try my idea.”

Thursday huffed a laugh.

 

Although it might be that Morse was on to something.

It might be that it wasn’t too late.

 

“I never married you for the money.” Win had said. “I married you because you were a man who I trusted to stand up for what was right. A man who I trusted would stand up for _me._ ”

 

Morse’s idea, perhaps, wasn’t too far off—but Thursday wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of action.

He wasn’t a solicitor, with gentle hands, filing briefs behind a desk all day. And he certainly was no poet. He was a copper, through and through.

He stretched back in the swing, rocking it so that Morse scowled in disapproval. He closed his eyes, and the sun fell warm on his face, on his fisted hands that rested in his lap—hands that, yes, had seen all sorts of wear and tear.

But hands that could weave a poem of their own.

A poem of deeds, not words.  

Maybe it was the warmth of the sun, but, suddenly, Thursday felt years younger. He felt recklessness. He felt ready to go out and do something big, something spectacular.

Or to go out in blazes trying.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Morse asked suspiciously, his wide blue eyes scrutinizing his face.

And, for the first time since Thursday had seen him this summer, stalking around inside of that cordon, he didn’t feel himself shrink under his gaze.

“Nothing,” Thursday said.

 

Thursday looked back out over the dark, sunlit water and felt the thrump of hope pulse through his veins.

It wouldn’t be long before a case would present itself, one that would give Thursday the chance to prove his mettle, the chance to shine once more in Win's eyes.

 

All he had to do was wait.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, there will be a domestic fluff interlude before this fic segues into a fairly angsty and hurt/comfort-heavy Degüello finale!
> 
> This will (finally) be the last fic in this series, (or at least for a while... since I've caught up timeline-wise with canon) so if there are any fun domestic fluff/romantic bits you would like to see in the next chapter, please let me know! I'd like to fill any prompts as a thank you to anyone who has followed this quirky little AU for so long! (Especially any Fancy/Trewlove--I think I have used up about everything season 5 had to offer :0) 
> 
> Thank you to Kmrjo, who has already suggested a fun bit! ... Bixby gets inspired by Morse's sultry book promo posters and decides to take up (ah-hem) photography. A bit of spice that also replaces photographer Claudine in this universe. Instead of a French "Au Revior, Chere," it's a good ol' Mississippi: "Hello, darlin'! Give me some sugar!" ;D


	8. "And something for yourself, of course"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is domestic fluff almost bordering on crack, I'm afraid. 
> 
> I thought it would be nice to give the characters a little break before all the angst and h/c of Degüello, and this is the result. There is a quiet Morse and Max moment, and some pensive Mr. Bright, but most of this is just all in fun ....
> 
> ****Please take note, The last section is rated E******
> 
> . . . I thought I would put the warning here, because, I dunno, it seems extreme to rate the whole (long) fic E because of one section. So please feel free to disregard that section if you want--it'll start as soon as the opera record starts up. Just look the other way, folks! 
> 
> In the spirit of Thursday's idea of patching up his marriage by buying Win a new oven, this chapter is all about gifts:  
> Bixby gives Endeavour some pub quiz answers,  
> Fancy and Trewlove give Bixby a poster,  
> Endeavour gives Bixby a fantasy-come-true,  
> Bixby gives Endeavour a language lesson,  
> Endeavour gives Max a hammock,  
> Max gives Mr. Bright a hamper,  
> Mr. Bright gives Endeavour his autograph,  
> and Endeavour gives Bixby something to remember.

If it weren’t for Endeavour’s dogged insistence on proving himself to be an absolute know-it-all on any and all occasions, it was possible that no one would have ever suspected a thing about Bix’s past.

But then there was DeBryn. He always seemed to be listening, somehow. He was one of the few people Bixby had ever met in his long career as a showman and a fraud who paid attention to what was around him, who seemed to look beyond the smoke and mirrors.

Bixby always knew he needed to go careful around the man.

And in more ways than one.

It was funny, really, that, considering Bix’s long line of romantic conquests—which consisted of one knockout after another, all of whom Bixby knew full well to have had other love interests in the offering, waiting side stage, so to speak—that the only person who should ever stir within him the barest trace of possessive jealousy should be a pathologist of all things, a perfectly pleasant-looking but unremarkable man who scarcely came up to his lover’s chin.

But there you are. Bixby had seen enough in his life to have long ago accepted all the foibles of the human heart.

Even his own.

 

At first glance, DeBryn was unassuming—the round face behind the neat glasses utterly expressionless, betraying not a trace of emotion. But yet, for all of that, the man seemed to crackle with an odd sort of energy—a sort that Endeavour seemed to tune right in on. Whenever they were together, they seemed always to be laughing at some private joke, snorting over their glasses as one of them or the other made some wry comment about Schopenhauer or the bleakness of existence or some such godawful thing.

 

Not that Bixby worried too greatly over the matter. If he hadn’t come along, he was certain the two of them would have continued on in just that way, making their acerbic little jokes, smirking at the perceived stupidity of those around them, until they had both grown old and gray, neither of them making even the hint of a first move.

Not only were they the biggest snobs Bix had ever met, but they were both possibly the most repressed people in all of Britain.  

And that was saying a lot.

Still, DeBryn never seemed all that well-disposed toward him. It was best to keep up one’s guard.

 

Unfortunately, DeBryn was one of the few people that Endeavour _did_ seem to trust. Around DeBryn, it seemed, Endeavour would blurt out anything and everything.

 

 

The quiz night was the perfect storm.

 

What was it? Some war Endeavour was waging with his dead father? Some drive to prove to those who sent him down from Oxford just how sadly mistaken they had all been? Why did Endeavour, who would happily go off and live again in that sad little lake house, suddenly grow so uncharacteristically competitive when it came to a ridiculous trivia game?

 

The night started out well enough. A group of old friends perched together in the cozy, round corner booth, a world of dark wood panels and coats of arms and low ceilings and firelight. Dark pints of ale sat on the scarred table before them, incandescent in the orange glow from the hearth.

They didn’t even look like their workaday selves—DeBryn had shed his jacket, Endeavour his tie. Trewlove was in a blouse and silk scarf, her hair worn down, while Fancy sported a mustard-colored shirt that suited him well enough—he was a classic winter like him—but was just a bit too hip for the earnest- looking fellow to quite pull off.

 

Capital Cities, both national and provincial, was the first category. There was little conflict or discussion as they went through the list; they each seemed to know instinctively whose judgment to defer to for each question. DeBryn, who had been reading up on TB in South America, was consulted on the capital of Uruguay. They were all in agreement that Stuttgart was the capital of Baden-Württemberg. When Endeavour said Alma-Alta was the capital of the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan, no one disagreed.

 

And then came Florida.

“Florida,” Fancy read out.

Endeavour whipped his head toward him so quickly, it almost took Bixby’s breath away. Bixby took a sip of his ale and pretended as if he hadn’t noticed.

“That’s got to be Miami,” Fancy said.

  
“Well?” Endeavour prompted. “Bix?”

 

Oh, to hell with it. Endeavour hated for their team to lose, and he could always cover his tracks.

 

“It’s Tallahassee,” Bixby said, simply.

“Talla-what?” Strange asked.

“Tallahassee,” Bixby repeated.

“It’s got to be Miami. Doesn’t it?” Fancy ventured.

“It does have a fairly large international airport,” Trewlove said, considering. “But the largest metropolitan center isn’t always the administrative center. Just look at Australia.”

“I’m sorry, matey,” Strange said, a vibration of a laugh in his low voice, as if he was settling the matter. “I never heard of this Talla-hooey. It’s got to be Miami.”

 

Bixby shrugged and returned to his ale.

Well. He tried.

Sorry, Endeavour.

 

But Endeavour, as he should have known, would not let it go so easily.

“It’s Tallahassee,” Endeavour snapped.  

“What?” Fancy asked. “But I already wrote down Miami.”

“Well, unwrite it,” Endeavour said. “It’s Tallahassee.”

 

DeBryn was watching the scene with interest. As well he might.  It wasn’t often that Endeavour deferred so readily to someone else’s opinion.

“I once owned some property, along the Gulf Coast there,” Bixby explained, with a jaded drawl.

 

It was a sandcastle he had built when he was seven, but they need never know.

 

Fortunately, Fancy was not particularly inclined to tangle with Endeavour. “All right,” he said, crossing through _Miami_. He shrugged and raised his eyebrows, as if to imply that he thought it best simply to humor him.

The look did not escape Endeavour, who glared at Fancy rather severely before returning to his glass.

 

And so, they moved on to Historical Battles. And Bixby sat back and let them scuffle over their Lancasters and their Plantagenets. His teachers had always seemed to skim over all of that in school, allowing instead for history to unfold with Pocahontas and John Rolfe, John Smith and Jamestown.

 

Then, Fancy read out: “This April 1775 clash marked the beginnings of open hostilities in the American War of Independence.”

“I’d say that was Bunker Hill,” DeBryn said.

 

Well, that was just too tempting. What? Miss the chance to show the doctor that Endeavour, at least, didn’t think he wasn’t as empty-headed as DeBryn seemed to believe?

 

“That _is_ the better known,” Bixby conceded, emulating DeBryn’s offhand way of airing his superiority in the best manner that he could. “But, I think you’ll find that that took place in June. The first skirmish actually occurred at Lexington and Concord, old man.”

 

“It’s Lexington and Concord,” Endeavour said, at once, barking his order to Fancy.

DeBryn raised his eyebrows, surprised at Endeavour’s vehemence.

Bixby had to take a sip of ale to hide his smile.

 

Bix was relieved when they got to Sport. It was a category Endeavour not only could not care less about, but actually seemed almost to hold in open contempt. Soon, it was clear that he had blanked out of the entire proceedings, leaving Strange and Fancy and Trewlove to come up with the answers as he stared blankly and moodily into the fire.

Bixby wasn’t much use here, either. Football matches and World Cups and Cricket.  

Who needed it?

 

There wasn’t one Bix could answer.

 

Until the questions grew progressively more complicated, more obscure.

 

“In American football, the primary role of this typically offensive position is to catch passes from the quarterback. But the player may be called upon to act defensively, tackling an opponent in the case of an errant pass to prevent an interception,” Fancy read.

He looked up from the paper, his thin face the picture of puzzlement.

“What the hell?” Fancy asked.

 

Around them, conversation at the other tables was buzzing. Everyone, evidently, had gotten stuck on the same question.

 

Then, suddenly, Endeavour’s face lit up in triumph. He slammed the flat of his hand hard onto the wooden table, sending their drinks rocking in their glasses.

And then, he blurted out, “Wide receiver!”

 

Every face at the table turned toward his.

 

“It’s wide receiver. The answer,” Endeavour said, with the air of one who had just experienced some divine revelation.

It was difficult to know who was the most surprised—Bixby, that Endeavour had actually remembered what he had said after he had tackled Alexander Reece in Jerome Hogg’s rooms last winter, or the rest of his former colleagues, that he would know such an esoteric sports term.

 

It was then that he noticed DeBryn’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him thoughtfully.

And why should he be looking at _him_? It was Endeavour who said the blasted thing.

Bixby drank the dregs of his ale.

This was exactly why he didn’t tell Endeavour for so long.

One person finds out, then another. He had moved within a variety of social circles long enough to know that gossip tends to grow exponentially, once it takes root.

Although he didn’t think the doctor wished him any ill will.

Not really.

 

Hmmmmmmm.

 

Bixby risked flicking a glance toward him. He was still watching him. Damn, but there was something frostily intimidating about the man. Why did he have to be so . . . uncannily perceptive?

 

Well, he had no one to blame but himself: it was he who had opened Pandora’s box, last fall, when he had told Endeavour his real name. He always felt, instinctively, that the moment he began to relax, the whole thing would unravel.

Maybe it would be prudent if he at least kept some ready cash on hand. He could hide it along with their passports in the loose floorboard near the fireplace in their room.

Just in case.

 

Bixby decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the night, and it was easy, when the talk, thank God, turned to work, and to their latest case, leaving him blessedly out of the spotlight.

Then, Trewlove asked DeBryn if he had any word on how Mr. Bright was doing, if his wife was doing any better. And the mood grew solemn.

Then Fancy was heckling Strange about a girl he had seen him with at a pub the week before, and the mood turned light.

Fancy was still laughing, when Trewlove smiled suddenly, and turned and whispered some question in his ear.  

“Oh, Bixby, I almost forgot. I have a present for you,” Fancy said, looking down at his seat.

 

“Oh?” Bixby asked, surprised. Trewlove, he noticed, was looking down, uncharacteristically girly, almost as if she was giggling.

Trewlove never giggled.

What the hell could it be?

 

Fancy reached down and produced a poster of all things, handing it to him across the table. Bixby took it, utterly perplexed, and slowly unrolled it.  

 

And instantly, any fears he had held about DeBryn evaporated right out of his mind. Popped like a soap bubble. All of his focus fell on the image before him.

 

It was a promotional poster for Endeavour’s new book, the one for which he had found such inspiration in Mr. Bright’s informational spot—a large image of Endeavour leaning up against a PELICON signal, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal just the beginnings of the curves of his collar bones, looking directly into the camera with soulful, sultry eyes, as if he was ready to throw himself at someone and . . .

 

“What the hell?” Bixby sputtered.

Endeavour glanced up at that, and looked at the poster without interest.

“Oh,” he said, “That.”

“Yes,” Bixby said. _“That.”_

 

But of course, Endeavour was oblivious. He had, Bixby knew, such a low opinion of his looks that he would never see what was right in front of him. That he truly had become what Bixby had so often called him in jest: Poetry’s Pinup Boy.

What was Turner playing at? Bix supposed they used sex appeal to sell anything these days, from cars to toothpaste.

But to sell poetry, too?

 

Bixby wasn’t sure whether to throttle the man or to thank him.

  

“What were you thinking about?” Bixby asked Endeavour. Truly, it looked as if he had only one thing on his mind, as he stared smolderingly into the camera.

Endeavour’s face fell then, and he looked uncertain.

“Why? What’s wrong with it? You always told me to go along with Turner, with this sort of thing.”

“No,” Bixby said, “It’s just . . .”

 

But what it just was, Bixby couldn’t say. Suddenly, his thoughts had circled beyond words, back to another time and to another place. He realized, with a swoop in his stomach, just why the poster should affect him so: in it, Endeavour looked just as he did on the night he had first met him, at that party, when he glared at the band as if by doing so he might reduce it to ashes with the mere intensity of his gaze. When he looked at him and said, “I can’t hear you.”

The Endeavour on the poster looked just as he had on the night that Bixby had decided to make his play.

 

Bix shifted in his seat, his trousers suddenly uncomfortably tight.

It was embarrassing. What, was he sixteen, to get hard just from looking at some sexy poster?

Some sexy poster that happened to be of his lover, who was utterly attainable, who was right beside him, in fact, whose warm, lean thigh was, even now, pressed firmly against his in this tight little booth?

 

“You know, old man, I’m afraid I just remembered,” Bixby said. “I left the stove on.”

There was a pause of several seconds as Endeavour processed this.

“ _What_?” he asked.   

“I was making a cup of tea, before we left, and I left the stove on.”

“When do you ever _make_ _yourself_ _a_ _cup_ _of_ _tea_?” Endeavour said, in wonderment, almost as much to himself as to him.

“It was a bear, having that place redone,” Bix said. “Hate for it to go up in flames. It would be a shame. All your drafts gone, with your deadline so near.”

“Are you . . . ?” Endeavour asked, a line forming between his brows, his voice turning low and mournful. “Are you serious?”

Bixby sat up, abruptly and worked his way out of the booth. “Best we go and check, yes?”

Endeavour was reaching for his satchel and putting the strap of it over his shoulder. “I suppose.”

“Right, we’re off then.”

“Night,” Endeavour said.

“Night,” came a chorus of replies.

 

As they left, Bix was sure, that, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trewlove and Fancy collapse against one another, shaking with laughter.

Well, let the youngsters have their little joke. They had plenty of time on their hands.

But for those who are midway on the journey of our lives, as Endeavour said Dante said—well, they should make the most of what opportunities that they have.

 

 

************

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bix moved Endeavour up against the wall and kissed him.

“What?” Endeavour laughed, pulling back, his big eyes swimming before him, confused. “What about the stove you were so desperate to check on?”

“It’s another sort of emergency, I’m afraid. One equally as desperate.”

“What? What are you talking about?”  

Bixby took Endeavour’s narrow hand in his and placed it firmly over his erection.

Then, Endeavour laughed that laugh that sounded like air being let out of a balloon.

“What? This is why you raced all the way back here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bixby said.

“But why? It’s not as if we have to hide in the woods anymore. We can do this anytime.”

“No time like the present,” Bix said, pressing up against him for another kiss.

Endeavour pulled away, his eyes darting over his face, as if he were considering something.

“Well,” he said at last, matter-of-factly. “If it’s an emergency, let’s go then.”

He wheeled around and tore up the stairs, and it wasn’t a bad sight, that impossibly tight arse bounding up the steps.

“Well?” Endeavour called haughtily, from the top of the landing, “Are you a wide receiver, or aren’t you? They’re supposed to be quick, I would have thought.”  Then he disappeared, and Bixby heard a tremendous thud. Endeavour hurling himself, no doubt, onto the bed.

 

God, he was an awkward sod.

 

By the time Bixby got up the stairs, Endeavour was clumsily unbuttoning his shirt, the lamp on the bedside table casting him in a yellow circle of light, as if he were on stage, as if he were the star of a photo shoot.

As if he were the slightly-out-of breath man on that poster come to life.

 As, indeed, he was.

Bixby’s eyes wandered to the camera that sat on his dresser. He picked it up and looked through the lens, changing the focus for a close-up.

“Say cheese, old man,” Bixby laughed.

 

He clicked the photo.

 

Endeavour paused midway through unbuttoning his shirt and looked up angrily, his fingers resting on the fabric, revealing the two fragile curves of his collarbones and the hollow of his throat, where Bixby had so often felt his pulse beat as he kissed him there, as he ran his hands lower and lower.  

Endeavour glowered at the unexpected intrusion. “I wasn’t ready,” he snapped.

“You looked plenty ready to me,” Bixby said.

Endeavour scowled at the double entendre. Even better.

Bixby snapped his photo again.

“Stop it,” Endeavour said.

 

“Why don’t you . . .?” Bixby broke off, suggestively.

“Why don’t I _what_?” Endeavour said, his face stern.

Bixby pulled the camera back and mimed unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand. Then he raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Hmmmmmm?”

“I can’t. I feel ridiculous.”

 

Well, of course he did.

 

“Come on,” Bixby said, holding up the camera. “Work it, baby.”

Endeavour looked at him as if he held little hope for him.

Then, a flicker of something passed over his face.

“If I do this, then perhaps you might owe me,” he said.

 

This sounded promising.

 

“Something you might find equally embarrassing,” Endeavour added.

Bixby laughed. He was talking to the wrong person, there, and he knew it. Bixby was a showman, through and through. He didn’t have the slightest trace of self-consciousness.

 He had never told Endeavour this, but, back in those days when they had met out in the woods, back when they had taken such pains to keep their affair a secret, Bixby often found himself hoping that they would get caught. It always gave him a little thrill, the idea that some partygoer might stumble upon them _flagrante_ _delicto_ , right in the act. 

After all, what was the point of acquiring a fine thing if you couldn’t flaunt it a little?

 

“That’s fine, old man.”

Endeavour paused, his big eyes boring in to his, as if making sure he had secured his promise.

Perfect.

 

Bixby snapped a photograph.

 

Endeavour smiled, then, bemusedly.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Where is this coming from?”

Bixby shrugged.  “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

It was the wrong thing to say to a poet. He frowned in disapproval at that.

“Depends on the words,” he snorted.  

Endeavour stripped his shirt off, revealing two pale shoulders, the chest with the smattering of fair hair, the too narrow waist. He was all austere lines and casual grace and . .

 

“And I don’t need Jerome Hogg getting a hold of these,” Endeavour said, looking at him sharply.

 

“Of course not,” Bixby said. “What? Do you think the man would break into our house? Besides, he’s moved on . . . “

 

Endeavour seemed mollified by this. He stood up, then, dressed only in his trousers, which hung low around his slim hips. He took one step forward and wrapped one long, sinewy arm around the post of the bed and looked up dramatically, posing like one of those moody young men featured in ads for cologne.

“That’s it,” Bixby said, snapping another photo.

Then, Endeavour lay down on the carpet and worked the button of his trousers undone, pulling them down just enough to reveal the edges of his hipbones, looking up at him the whole time with big, soulful eyes and a knowing smile. His hand strayed, then, down under the gap of his trousers, and his eyes drifted closed . . .

. . . and Bixby tossed the camera onto the bed.

Endeavour opened his eyes as Bixby stretched out beside him. “What happened to, “A picture is worth a thousand words?”

 “Actions speak louder than words, old man,” Bixby murmured.

 

******

Bixby was half asleep, stretched out and sated, drifting as Endeavour’s nimble and clever hand remained between them, still encircling and holding them together, running softly up and down, as gently as an afterthought.

Outside, rain beat steadily against the window, and there was something in the contrast of it—of the cold shimmer of the rain hitting the glass with his own warm and lazy thoughts—that just felt right somehow, that was absolutely perfect.

 

“Love and rain,” Endeavour murmured, his eyes softly closed.

“How English,” Bixby said.

Endeavour’s eyes remained closed, but his mouth quirked in a half-smile. “People have been doing this since there’s been people. Before even. Back when we were . . . whatever we were.”

Bixby huffed a laugh. “My. How deep.”

“They probably lay on branches, wrapped in each other’s arms, staring out at thunderheads. Safe in that one brief moment .... from the vast awfulness of it all.”

Bixby laughed. “I don’t know how it is you can you say that with a straight face. My, god, but you’re gloomy.”

Endeavour opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. “What? I was being serious.”

“Are you ever anything but? And what’s this ‘one brief moment’ business?  I thought it was decided, old man.”

“What was decided?”

“That we said it’s ‘happily ever after.’”

Endeavour’s eyes drifted shut again, and his smile deepened. “Hmmmmm,” he agreed. “How American.”

 

He leaned forward, then, and whispered in his ear.

“That reminds me. It’s my turn now.”

 

Bixby blinked, surprised. He had sort of thought that was both their turns.

If whatever Endeavour had in mind required him to get hard again, he’d have to give him some time.

Midway through the journey of our life and all the rest.

Ah, well.

 

Endeavour nuzzled closer, rubbing his cheek against his face, close to his ear.

 

“What do you want?” Bixby asked huskily.

 

Bix could feel the smile twitch at the corner of Endeavour’s mouth.

“I want to hear you talk,” he said.

 

Bixby groaned. This time, he knew all too well what Endeavour meant.

 

“Come on. You promised,” Endeavour said.  

Bixby scrubbed a hand over his face.  

“I posed like a tart for you,” Endeavour huffed. “It seems the least you can do is drop your pose for me for a little while.”  

Bix sighed. “I suppose that’s fair enough. But it’s not as easy as you would think, you know. I’ve been trying not to have that accent for almost as many years as I had it now.”

Endeavour furrowed his brow, looking unimpressed by this excuse. “You switch from English to French quickly enough.”

Bix shook his head. It wasn't quite the same.

But, lying here, heavy and slow on the thick carpet, with only Endeavour in the room, perhaps it would not be so very difficult.

Not so difficult to let his voice go from as brisk as a cup of black tea and as crisp as a biscuit, to as slow and easy as a piece of soft bread dripping with Tupelo honey.

 

“Hey, there, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you stop talkin for a minute and give me some sugar?”

Endeavour laughed that laugh that sounded like water lapping against the dock.  

 

“ _Sugar_?” Endeavour breathed, uncertainly. “What’s that mean, then?”

“It means give me a kiss,” Bixby said.

“Oh,” Endeavour said.  

 

And so he did.

 

“This is sort of interesting,” Endeavour murmured. “I thought of going into languages and linguistics at one point before I settled on Greats, did you know? Give me another.”

 

“Well,” Bixby said, meditatively. “If you found that confusing, I guess we may as well start working on all the devious complexities of ‘Bless your heart.’”

“Hmmm?”

“It can mean exactly what it says. And it can also mean exactly the opposite. It all depends on the context.”

Endeavour frowned. “What?”

 

Well, it wasn’t often that Bix pitched one that went over his head.

It was just like anything else in life: Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

 

The rain played on against the window, striking the glass at different notes, creating its own watery symphony. And who knew what was to come? 

But for now, at least, their pasts were somewhere behind them. For now, at least, they were safe—even in a world of smoke and mirrors.

Because there was no real magic.

Only love.

And rain.

 

***********

 

Max DeBryn wasn’t sure if he had ever been more grateful to pull up into his own drive.

It had been a soul-deadening day.

Try as he might, he could not get his last case out of his mind. Stevie McCallister. Aged 9. Died from a broken neck as he dove headfirst into a lake.

An afternoon of fun on a hot summer day turned into the end of his short life, in just the time it took to blink an eye. His parents had wondered—had even seemed to hope, really—that he might have had some sort of seizure.

And Max could understand that it might be easier to accept it had there had been some other cause—if perhaps his death had been fated all along, rather than proving to be the result of mere blind accident.

 

It did seem brutal price to pay for one moment of daredevilry.

 

It was terrible to think of how the years would stretch on without him, how his parents would no doubt mark each birthday and wonder what he would have been like, had he chosen to do something else on one day in August so many years ago.

 

Max cranked the key out of the ignition. He desired nothing more than the chance to enjoy the quiet of his garden. To be alone. To do some weeding. To put a bit of order back into a disordered world.

It didn’t exist in reality, control. But his garden did provide the illusion of it. A spot of serenity in a haphazard world.

 

As soon as he opened the door of his Morris, he saw it—the green bicycle parked beneath a tree.

 

Oh, bugger it.

 

He went to the gate, expecting to see Morse in the chaos of his garden, clacking away on his typewriter, or kicking back some Scotch.

But all was quiet. All was . . . surprisingly unchaotic. It looked as if Morse had rather spruced the place up; the beds were weeded, and a bit of the shrubbery trimmed.  

Of course, the chap meant to be helpful, but Max had been rather hoping to do that himself.

 

But where was Morse now? His ruddy bicycle was still here.

 

Max went in through the gate and noticed a new addition to his garden. In the corner, under the plum trees, a hammock swayed gently. The hemp ropes were dyed every color of the rainbow, blue and red and green and orange. Max frowned. It was a garish thing; a bit like tying a scarf bought at Burbridge’s to the tail of a wild pony.

 

Max approached it quietly and found  Morse there, asleep, breathing quietly, his russet eyelashes softly brushing his sunburnt face, his hair curling summer red-gold against one of the hammock's twin green pillows. Max’s hands itched to push it back from his face; he had often wondered if the tangled mess was as soft as it looked.

 

Like all who sleep with someone watching over them, Morse seemed to sense the presence of a beholder. The large eyes blinked open.

“Hello, Max.”

“Morse.”

He sat up. “I brought you a present. To thank you for helping me with the Christine Chase case.”

“Ah,” Max said.

Morse scooted over a bit to the side, sending it rocking. “Try it,” he said.  

 

Max stood before it, hesitantly. There was absolutely no dignified way in which to get into the thing.

 

Morse seemed to realize that he was having his doubts. “I tied it pretty tightly. It will hold you.”

 

Max snorted; Morse certainly knew how to add insult to injury.

 

It was an ungainly feat, but Max managed to get into the thing. It swung dangerously as his weight settled beside Morse’s. He felt clumsy, out-of-sorts, especially as he noted how Morse’s lean lines seemed to curve within the nest of canvas and rope far more gracefully.

Morse lay his head back down on the pillow, seemingly mollified that he was at least giving the hammock a try.  

 

“How was your day?” Morse murmured, looking up into the branches.  

The awful rocking had settled at last, so Max, resigned, lay his head down on the matching green pillow.

“Bloody awful.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

 

Morse, thank god, was one of the few people who knew when not to press.

It had been wrenching enough, trying to provide what little comfort he could to the McCallister family, but, as he was leaving, Max had run into Mr. Bright, out on the sidewalk, popping into a chemist’s.

Never had Max seen the man looking so shrunken, so drained. Illness, Max knew, often took its greatest toll on the caregiver. It stuck Max, how cruel life could be, attacking at both ends. There was young Stevie, dead of a childish stunt, and Mr. Bright, being slowly run into the ground with care over his wife’s grueling illness.

 

It was difficult, at times, to see the sense of any of it.

 

As soon as he had left Mr. Bright, he thought at once of the seed cakes he had baked the night before; perhaps he might bring over a hamper—the seed cakes, some boiled eggs, some bread and cheese and fruit—doubtless the man had little appetite, wasn’t eating properly. Max had seen it before, how a caregiver’s health could quickly deteriorate.

But his schedule had been beastly, and it wasn’t looking as if it would improve any time in the near future.

 

“Morse? I wondered if you might do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I have a hamper, for Mr. Bright. But I have the early shift tomorrow. Do you think you could take it to him?”

“All right,” Morse said.

“You won’t forget?”

“No. I won’t _forget_ ,” Morse said, testily.

 

In the one word, Max could see it: the spark of blue eyes at the crime scene, the flash of a gray car coat.

 

“All, right, then,” Max said, quietly, apologetically. “Thank you.”

 

The thrum of tension faded as quickly as it came.

 

“Are you staying on? At Castle Gate? As a consultant?” Max asked.

“I dunno,” Morse mused dreamily. “Yes. I suppose so. Thursday still needs me, I think. He’s . . . he’s up to something.”

“What’s that?” Max said.

“I don’t know,” Morse said. “Just . . . something.” He sighed, then. “It will be a bit of a trial, having to put up with that condescending arse, Box, though.” Morse snorted. “I don’t believe I ever met anyone so infuriatingly thick and short-sighted in the whole enitety of my life. Bless his heart.”

 

Max blinked. He knew that Morse was not religious, so why he would choose to bestow what blessings he did ever offer on a man whom he had just insulted, was mystifying to say the least.

 

But before Max could puzzle it out, Morse had moved on. “You know what I’ve discovered?” he asked.

“What’s that?” Max asked.

“Look up.”  

“I am looking up, Morse. It’s about the only direction one can look while ensnared inside this contraption.”

“Well?” Morse said. “What do you see?”

“Leaves and the sky,” he said dryly.

“Ssshhhhh,” Morse said, bristling with disapproval. “Just give it a chance.”

 

Max relented, and, with his hands resting comfortably across his stomach, he tilted his head up on the small green pillow, looking up into the trees above. Amongst the dense leaves, finches flitted from branch to branch, lazy honeybees hummed about heavy plums, and a small white butterfly fluttered past, its wings beating at the air like cymbals.

Slowly, the day began to fall away. Max felt his breathing still; it wasn’t so terrible, the hammock, once one got used to the gentle motion, the rolling as if one were lying on a cloud.

 

“Look,” Morse said. “There are whole other worlds up there.”

“Hmmmmm,” Max hummed noncommittally.

“You can almost imagine that Bix might be right. That there are worlds you can’t see. After all, if you look up, you’ll see there’s one right there.”

Max scowled at that bit of sentimentality—it did seem very un-Morse-like to say the least. It was like listening to a favorite record that had acquired a rather jarring skip.

 

Morse moved his head to follow the path of a finch, and suddenly, a mass of curls ruffled against the side of Max’s face. The red-gold waves, were indeed as soft as Max had imagined, smelling surprisingly of autumn leaves and old paper and something else . . . something that Max couldn’t quite place, something that was not intrinsic to him. Max inhaled deeply and sighed further into the hammock.

Ah. It was a whiff of aftershave, one a bit stronger than he could ever envision Morse taking the time to apply. Traces one supposed, left by Bixby.

And suddenly, Max could imagine how it must have come to be there: it had not been a passionate kiss, but rather nothing more than a quick brush of his face against Morse’s temple, a simple, domestic little thing, such as most men like Max would scarcely know.

“See you tonight, old man,” Bixby would say, in that accent that was a little _too_ silky, a little _too_ polished, before he went off to put in some call to Marseille.

It was no matter.

It was all right. Bixby might be impossibly shallow, even simple enough perhaps to believe in some “other worlds,” as Morse had just termed it. But he _had_ seemed capable of doing something Max had not: accepting Morse just as he was.

 

Max couldn’t help but compare the Morse who now lay stretched beside him with the Morse he had known before his life had taken such an unpredictable detour. At first, all Max could see were the differences, and then, all he could see were the similarities.

It was difficult to know which were the harder to face.

Later, he began to see the changes in Morse as a continuum. And indeed, he had known the new Morse for so long now, that he had come to realize that he was perhaps the true Morse all along, stubborn and curious and pensive—paradoxically both awkward to the point of shyness and candid to the point of rudeness—all of that had been there, always.

It was just that some of it had been hidden behind a rather extensive set of walls.

Whether it was a result of injury or trauma—or, most likely, both—those walls of melancholy and self-imposed isolation had crumbled down around him. Whether Morse found he just didn’t have the strength to rebuild them, or whether he decided they weren’t worth the energy in maintaining, Max didn’t know.

 

But one thing was certain: Max would never entirely be able to let the puzzle go. He would always be wondering what had gone amiss. 

And, for all that Morse had changed, his considerable cat-like pride was still firmly intact—was quicker to show itself, even, since he had all the more to be defensive about.

Should their paths ever have wound together, such would prove to be a terrible combination. He, unable to resist a professional analysis, Morse, growing pricklier and more withdrawn as a result.

 

They would be just like the first stanza in that poem of Houseman’s:

 

Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;

 I only vex you the more I try.

All's wrong that ever I've done or said,

And naught to help it in this dull head:

Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.

 

 

Max was, first and foremost, a doctor. He’d forever be trying to work out what the problem was. And how to fix it.

 

Bixby was a gambler. Once he found the hand he was happy with, he rolled with it.

 

It was for the best, really. He and Morse were too much alike in so many ways. Max had given up on those daydreams long ago now.  He laughed at himself sometimes, to think of how he used to wonder what might have been.

Time had moved on without them, time and accident had taken them on such  different paths, the thing would be impossible now.

 

And so much the better. He may have lost a onetime lover, but as a friend, he was sure, he would have a place in Morse’s life forever. There was no one, really, in whom he placed more trust.

As forgetful and as impulsive and as difficult as Morse was, Max was certain, that if he ever needed him, he would come at once.

Their friendship, Max knew, proved the second stanza of that poem true:

 

But if you come to a road where danger

Or guilt or anguish or shame’s to share,

Be good to the lad that loves you true

And the soul that was born to die for you

And whistle and I'll be there.

 

Friendship was a fair enough prize in the barter. Max knew it was not a gift Morse extended to many, and he knew well its worth.

 

Up above, the finches began to chatter and chirp, their wings fluttering against the leaves in a flurry of movement. Max closed his eyes, and, as he did, he felt as if the hammock had taken on a new rhythm, as still and steady as the slow, deep breathing beside him.

He sat up and found that Morse, had indeed, fallen back to sleep.

Max watched him for a moment and then lay back down.

 

Well, it was no wonder the chap was tired, riding that bicycle everywhere.

 

He closed his eyes and took a deep and calming breath; the air smelled of lavender and overripe plums and summer heaviness.

 

The last thing that occurred to Max before falling asleep was that perhaps Bixby was not such a simpleton, after all.

 

Lying night after night beside the head of russet curls, wondering what thoughts were circling on the pillow right next to his, it was little wonder that the man had come to the conclusion that there might be entirely other worlds, somewhere—whole universes that we may never see.

 

************

 

Reginald was just making his way down the stairs, when he heard the sound of the front door bell.

It had been a trying day. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall, and saw, with a tinge of dismay, that it had not yet gone eleven. It felt, somehow, that he had been up for hours. That is should be at least three by now.  

He opened the door to find a teenaged boy with wild hair and sunglasses, wearing a t-shirt and jeans that had been torn at the knee. A book satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he was carrying a basket.

 

Reginald blinked. Some rough sleeper, going door to door selling trinkets to get by, perhaps?

 

The boy lifted his sunglasses, and suddenly, he was older, and he was . . .

 

‘Hello, sir,” Morse said.

“Morse,” he said. “Good heavens.”

“I brought this,” he said, holding up the hamper. “For you.”

“Oh. Well. Come in. Please.” Reginald said.

“It’s not actually from me,” Morse explained, coming in through the door. “It’s from Max. I’m just delivering it.”

“ _Max_?” Reginald asked, momentarily bewildered. “Oh. Oh, yes. DeBryn.”

He took the offered hamper. “Nice of him,” Reginald said. “Be sure to send him my thanks.”

“Sir.”

“Might I get you something? Glass of iced tea, perhaps? Beastly day.”

“Well….”  Morse ventured. “I wouldn’t say no to a gin.”

Reginald felt his face falter into a fragile smile. He had wanted one all morning, but the thought of drinking so early in the day—and alone, too—had given him pause. The state he was in now, he could sense that overindulgence would not set a helpful precedent.

 

“Ah, yes,” Reginald said. “Fresh lime?”

Morse smiled. “Is there any other way, sir?”

 

They settled themselves in the living room, and it was a welcome relief, sitting with someone who could answer him back, clearly. As much as he cherished these last weeks with Helena, every word she had for him now, those few that came when she was not sleeping, arrived to him through a haze of medication and pain. 

It was difficult: he was not yet alone, but, at the same time, he had never felt so alone in his life. It was as if she was becoming a memory, right before his eyes. He had never felt so powerless. 

Well, not since Dulcie. . . . 

 

Reginald took a sip of his drink, and Morse followed suit; he didn’t say much, but then, he never did.

Morse was a puzzle, had always been a puzzle. There was something different about him, since his return to Oxford. It was as if he had blurred around edges, somehow.

 

He had read an article in the _Oxford Mail_ about Morse’s new book, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

 

Reginald had noticed, however, a few ramifications from the article. The officers down at the station still tended to snigger as he passed, but among the college crowd, he seemed to have become somewhat of a celebrity.

It began when two girls with heavily lined eyes, and a boy who was dressed so much like Morse as to be his twin, had asked for his autograph. He wondered, at first, if he was being mocked, and he had even suspected so, but he was too polite not to go along.

The poster they asked him to sign, Reginald noticed, was done in the same chromatic tones as one of his PELICON educational posters, but when it was completely unfurled, he found that it was a poster of Morse—some promotional piece for his new book.

From then on, it was the same wherever he went; somehow he had become heralded as a poet’s inspiration. “If the pelican can, so can you” seemed to have become a catchphrase of sorts, among the students.

 

Yes, Reginald couldn’t make heads nor tails of it.

 

Morse took another sip of his gin, looking entirely at ease with the long stretch of silence that had fallen between them.

From what he had garnered, Morse’s books had been successful, but Reginald found he couldn’t help but wonder how he was really doing. The man looked a bit of a mess, to be honest, a little lost, and more than a little disheveled. 

That was a career in the arts for you: last winter when he had stopped by, he had had a chauffeur and a shiny blue Jaguar. Now the poor fellow was reduced to getting himself around on an old bicycle.

 

“Morse. You know. I hope we’ve known each other long enough that we can speak frankly.”

Morse looked at him, his face clouded with uncertainty. “Yes?”

 

Reginald sighed. How to begin. It was such an awkward thing, talking about money.

 

“I’ve always felt a certain responsibility toward the men who have served with me. And I just wanted you to know....Well.... It’s no secret that there’s not much money in poetry. I’m not saying it’s not admirable, pursuing a career in the arts, but . . . . If you should ever happen to need anything . . . .”  

“Oh,” Morse said. “That’s all right sir. I think I’m fairly well set. But . . . actually . . . I was wondering . . . “

“Yes?”

Morse nodded to the poster that he had left on an end table, the one that had been left on his doorstep, rolled around a fish.

“Could . . . could I have that poster? I mean. . . only if it’s an extra one.”

“The poster?” Reginald asked. “Yes. Yes,  of course.

 

“Would you . . .?”  a faint blush of pink blossomed under his sunburned face, and he bent his head down and rumpled at the curls at his nape. “Never mind.”  

 

“What is it?” Reginald asked.

“Would you . . . would you sign it, sir?”

“What?” Reginald asked. “Oh. Yes. I suppose I could.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morse said. 

Reginald raised his hands to check his shirt pockets. "I'm afraid I don't have a pen," he said. It was odd; he was so used to having one on his person; in the past, there had always been one thing or another requiring his signature. Now, there was nothing. 

 

"I'm sure I have one," Morse said, opening his satchel. He shuffled through it for what seemed a long while, and, eventually, pulled out a set of keys. He looked at them, his brows furrowed in puzzlement. 

 _"Where did I get these keys?_ " he mused, quietly under his breath. 

 

Then he startled, his eyes wide, and he shot him a furtive look. 

 

"I never had these keys, all right, sir?" he asked. 

"I haven't the slightest idea as to what you are talking about," Reginald said. 

He had spoken in earnest--he honestly had no idea as to what Morse was on about, but Morse seemed to believe there was some sort of understanding between them. 

He flashed a tentative smile. "Thank you, sir. I knew I could rely on you." 

**************

Bixby was just stacking a few papers when an opera record began to blare at full volume from the next room. He paused in his work and frowned. It wasn’t like Endeavour to play the stuff so loud during the day. He had a lot to be getting on with.

Bixby was about to call out for him, when Endeavour appeared in the doorway as if by magic, dressed in the full regalia: the kilt, the fly plaid, the high socks that ended inches below the knee to show his long, strong legs, bare and downy with coarse fair hair. He stood, posing dramatically, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

A slow smile began to soften its way across Bixby’s face.

So, the music was his entrance hail, then.

Bix wasn’t sure why he got such a kick out of that kilt—he supposed it might be because it was so symbolically Endeavour—on the outside, it was all austerity and acerbity, all proper ceremonial formality, and, underneath . . . well, underneath, there were absolutely no barriers left between them.

Endeavour wandered slowly into the room until he stood before his chair. Then, he placed one knee between Bix’s legs, bent down, and kissed him—a kiss so long and filthy as to take Bixby’s breath away.

 

And Bixby was not a man who was easily taken off guard.

 

Just when Bixby was reaching forward to urge Endeavour down onto his lap, Endeavour pulled away and considered him for a moment, lazily, before plunging back down for another sloppy kiss. This time, he pulled his knee back so that it was closer to the edge of the chair, giving himself room to place his hand firmly over Bix’s cock, stroking his long fingers up and down and up again, over his light summer wool trousers. He kept the motion going over the rough fabric as he kissed him, until Bixby’s hips involuntarily bucked up towards the cup of his palm.

Endeavour stepped back, and—before Bixby knew what was happening—he had worked his belt buckle undone and was pulling the belt out smoothly from the loops. He cast it off to the side and moved on to the task of unbuttoning and unzipping Bix’s trousers.

 Bixby watched the quick fingers as they worked—still so surprised by Endeavour’s clear and determined intent, that it took his mind a moment to catch up. Endeavour had to look at him pointedly before he thought to lift his hips, allowing Endeavour to pull the trousers down, leaving them pooled around his ankles.

 

Then, in one silent motion, Endeavour settled himself across him, one bony knee tucked into each corner of his chair, his hands at Bix’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt, his arse hovering a tantalizing few inches over his cock.

He took Endeavour’s hips, trying to encourage him down onto his lap, to straddle him completely, to settle down against him, but Endeavour reached his hand down instead, stroking along Bix’s cock, coating it with the precome that was already beginning to seep from the slit.

Bixby’s eyes fluttered shut and his breathing quickened, as the sure and narrow hand slid up and down his length, running a firm thumb over the head with every stroke.

Bix held Endeavour’s hips and then reached back and under the kilt, to take his arse into his hands, to run his broader fingers along the cleft and . . .

There. . .

Bixby groaned. It was already slick with lube. He ran one finger up and down Endeavour’s entrance, and, when he slipped it inside, he found it went in easily, that he was stretched and ready to take him, right now, just as he was.

“Oh, god,” Bix groaned.  The idea that Endeavour had prepared himself, had planned out this little production, sent another pulse of desire straight to his cock.

Endeavour paused as he was planting kisses along his jawline, laughing huskily, as if taken by this own daring.

It was too much. Bixby took Endeavour’s hips in his hands to urge him down, while he breathed heavily into his ear. “Please. Endeavour? Deavour? Please.”

 

Endeavour stopped the motion of his hand mid-stroke—Bixby was not sure if it was possible for him to get any harder, at any rate—and then held Bix’s cock firmly in his hand to meet him as he sat, to guide him until he was slipping inside, slowly and slowly, until he was bullocks deep within him, until Endeavour’s arse was pressing down, a warm and welcoming weight across his hips and the tops of his thighs.

Endeavour’s hands smoothed over his chest, toying with his nipples, as he raised and lowered himself, stroking himself up and down on Bixby’s cock.

Bix gasped into Endeavour’s throat and tried to roll his hips up to him in answer, but Endeavour’s knees, locked into the corners of the chair, kept him firmly in place.

“Please,” he murmured, breathing heavily in Endeavour’s ear. “Please. Endeavour.”

 

Endeavour silenced him with another kiss. Bix ended it shortly, needing to speak.

“I can’t move. I have to . . .  I have to . . . Endeavour. . .”

 

He kissed the hollow of Endeavour’s throat, in a silent plea, and felt a vibration there that might have been laughter.

“I can’t . . .  Please.”

He must have sounded desperate enough that Endeavour took pity on him—or perhaps he decided he had drawn out the little fantasy long enough—because, suddenly, Endeavour moved his knees back, as if beginning raise himself up.

But Bixby didn’t want that, either.

He wanted to keep him right where he was. 

He just wanted to be able to move, too. To piston into him. To release the delicious tension building in his achingly hard cock, to shove himself in and to hit that spot within Endeavour again and again, to stroke over that place that made those blue eyes go wide and unfocused, that left him keening breathlessly in his ear.

And so when Endeavour moved to climb out of the chair, Bix grabbed him by the bottoms of his thighs and lifted him up, standing as he did so, following along with him, keeping them soldered together. Endeavour let out a cry of surprise, and then he was laughing as Bix spilled him backwards onto his desk.

 

“But what about your papers?” he asked.

“To hell with them,” Bixby said.

 

And Endeavour was laughing, his summer red-gold hair wild amongst the disheveled documents. Bixby wrapped his hands around Endeavour’s lean thighs and pulled his legs up, maneuvering him forwards so that he was flush up against him, and Endeavour’s eyes fluttered shut, the laughter turned to a startled gasp of pleasure.

Like this, standing at his desk with Endeavour sprawled before him, he could finally, mercifully, move his hips, finally relieve the tautness within him. He stroked in and out of Endeavour’s body, changing the angle until Endeavour’s gasps turned to a keening cry at the peak of every thrust.

He felt like he could stay there forever, with the strong, supple thighs—just beginning to tremble with the effort of being held open—pressed up against him as he rolled his hips, driving his cock deep into the warmth of Endeavour’s body. Somehow, the pulse of him seemed to carry through Bix’s cock, and through his veins, all the way to his head, so that he almost could believe he heard bells ringing, a familiar chime that his conscious mind couldn’t quite place.

He quickened his pace, and he was stroking him beautifully, so that his hips were slapping against the bare skin of Endeavour’s arse with every thrust, so that Endeavour’s eyes were wide and glazed and worshipful, watching him.

Then Endeavour reached up suddenly, drawing him down further on top of him, pressing him in still deeper, bringing his face to his. He rose up and kissed Bix somewhere near his temple, a quick and clumsy thing, and then his body was shuddering as he panted, “Oh Bix Oh Bix Oh Bix,” hotly in his ear.

Bixby let out a deep moan, as Endeavour began rolling his hips, arching his back at every stoke, so that his arse was rising up off the desk to meet him, in an increasingly frenzied pace.

And he was so deep, so deep into him, and he could go on just like that, railing away right into him, and then . . .

 

“Oh, god, oh god, Deavour.” He had to slow down, he was going to come, and he didn’t want to, not yet.

 

Endeavour let out an odd sound that was half disappointment and half question, and began arching his hips again.

“All right,” Bixby panted. “All right.” He laughed breathlessly, before restarting his pace.

 

Finally, when Bix thought he couldn’t hang on a moment longer, Endeavour’s body contracted around his cock, a wild flutter that rippled right through him, pulsating so as to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of him.  

Bixby let out a gasping cry. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” he whispered, encouraging Endeavour on. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer.

 

And then he was over the edge. He pulled Endeavour’s legs higher and ground them together one last time, and then he held him there as he came, spilling hot inside of him.

The stayed like that for a moment, Bix rocking slowly, stroking his softening cock a few final times, reveling in the even greater heat and slickness as Endeavour trembled with a few final spasms of his orgasm.

 

He waited until Endeavour sighed and went limp, clearly sated, before pulling out and collapsing backwards into his chair. His legs were so wobbly beneath him, he wasn’t sure if he could have stood a moment longer. The blood was coursing through him, almost as if it was hammering in his ears, a knocking sound that seemed somehow out of rhythm with his heartbeat.  

And right when he felt he had almost gotten his breath under control, right when his vision seemed to clear, he looked up.

 

The sight made Bixby’s mouth go dry.

 

Endeavour hadn’t bothered to move. He was sprawled out on the desk before him, his face the picture of bliss, all long lines and careless grace, all of his considerable inhibitions abandoned, his legs still trembling, splayed open before him. It was an irresistible invitation.

There was a knocking, knocking, knocking in his ears, of the blood beating inside his head. In the distance, the opera aria soared on.

If only he had that camera . . . but there was no need. Bixby had a feeling this was an image he would take to the grave.

And it was best left undocumented, after all. Somehow, Bixby knew, even if his awkward Endeavour left him tomorrow, even if he found scores of other lovers, there was no one, no one before whom he would lie so utterly abandoned, no one he would trust to see him so utterly open, body and soul.

 

 

It was best if Bix remained just where he was. If he sat here quietly enough, Endeavour might be content to remain just as he was, too. And if he did, if he’d just give Bixby a bit of time, Bixby would be more than happy to oblige him with another round.  

His heart raced as he entertained the very idea, his pulse thrumming through his head with a knocking in his ears. A few kisses, a few long, slow caresses, and he’d be right back inside him, slapping away, until Endeavour fell apart again beneath him.

 

And then, in the space of two seconds, the spell was broken, like a bit of magic dust tossed up into the darkened sky.

 

Endeavour sat up abruptly, his stubborn jaw set, his eyes sharp and flashing, looking as cross as two sticks. As he did, the kilt fell primly back into place, and suddenly, he looked as austere and proper and buttoned-up as a dutiful sentry on guard of some highland castle, one of cold and foreboding stone.

 

“Who the hell keeps ringing the bell and knocking at that door?” he snapped. “Can’t they take the hint?”  

He jumped down off the desk with a vigor that left Bixby stunned and marched out of the room as if he hadn’t been just lying limp and spent before him, as if was ready to do battle with world.

“I can’t even concentrate for two minutes with that incessant pounding,” he complained, as he strode angrily out the door.

 

 _“Concentrate?_ ” Bixby thought.  He had imagined all this time that that was the last thing that Endeavour was doing.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Then he burst out laughing.

He knew he really ought to get up and help whatever poor soul was at their door. But he couldn’t catch his breath.

Whoever it was was on his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me. *runs and hides*


	9. “There’s a connection; I’m just not seeing it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We almost got to the end of season 6 without anything befalling poor Morse... and then he was involved in a building collapse...
> 
> This chapter was a bit difficult ... trying to get from the light comic relief of the last chapter, through the details of the case, and on to angst and hurt/comfort was sort of a challenge...
> 
> ...but it’s all to give everyone the chance to love Morse even more <3

As soon as Jim Strange took one look at the papers that DCI Box had picked up, scanned, and then tossed back into the bin, the sergeant made his decision.

When Strange went to retrieve the small scraps, he found that they were each inscribed with a few characters made of graceful curves and odd little dots. They looked for all the world to be some sort of writing, some sort of foreign language. 

He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but one thing was clear.

 

Morse certainly never would have thrown these away.

 

“What’s this?” Strange asked.

“Just some scribble,” Box said, dismissively, stalking panther-like, in his tight black suit, amidst the tables.

Thursday took a look at the papers over his shoulder. “Looks to me like Hebrew,” he said.

“Hmmmm,” Strange said. “A librarian murdered in the Bodleian with a wood chisel of all things. Odd bits of paper in a foreign language. You know whose opinion we could use on this case?”

“Ah, Christ,” Box said, “Not our so-called consultant. You really want to let him loose in a place like this? He’ll be combing every book in the building for the barest trace of a note in the margins.”

 

That was rather the idea, Strange thought.

 

Strange looked at Thursday; the old man’s face was impossible to read—he couldn’t tell if he was pleased with the idea of calling Morse in, or simply resigned.

“When is DeBryn scheduled to be here?” Strange asked.

“He’ll be an hour,” Box said. “Off checking on some junkies, now. Came over the radio.”

 

Strange raised an eyebrow and made a mental note to stop by the place when he was done here. It made no sense: Eddie Nero and Cromwell Ames were dead. Alexander Reece was in prison. And the steady stream of tainted heroin had continued on, pouring into Oxford, it seemed, as if nothing had happened.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on these latest victims, see if there was any connection to that hapless tramp he had found a month back.

 

But first, there was a matter of a murdered librarian, killed right amidst his own stacks. Twenty minutes out to Lake Silence, twenty minutes back . . . he’d have plenty of time to pick up Morse before the sawbones got to the library.

 ******

Strange could hear the opera blaring as soon as he got out of the car. Morse must be home, then.

He rang the bell smartly and waited, feeling more confident than he had on his previous visit. He had been surprised, then, at how enthusiastically Morse had greeted him. It was a relief, actually, knowing he was in Morse’s good books again.

A minute or so passed, but no one came to the door. And no wonder: he most likely couldn’t hear a thing with that bloody caterwauling cranked so loud.

Strange rang the bell again, and, for good measure, knocked heavily on the door. “Morse!” he shouted.

He waited politely a minute or so before knocking again. “Blimey, he’ll go stone deaf with that stuff,” he muttered, rapping on the door.

Still, there was no answer.

He knocked again, more emphatically. “Morse! I know you’re at home! I can hear your bloody record all the way to the drive!”

They were wasting time. If they didn’t get a move on, they would miss DeBryn.

Strange raised his hand to knock again, when the door tore open. Morse was there, looking as cross as two sticks, dressed in a kilt, of all things, with a matching green and blue plaid sash draped over his white shirt, pinned to his shoulder.

 

“What?” he shouted. “What is it that you want? Why are you knocking and banging so incessantly on this door?”

 

Strange was so taken aback by this unexpected salvo of negativity, that, for a moment, he was rendered speechless.

“Sorry, matey. Blimey. Are you on a deadline or something?”  

Morse snorted. “Well. I am now, I suppose. What is it that you want?”

“The head librarian at the Bodleian has been murdered. Right in the library. Stabbed with a wood chisel,” Strange said.

Morse’s eyes widened. That had piqued his interest, at any rate.

“We found these in the bin. Wondered what you might make of them,” Strange added, offering the papers.

Morse snatched them with ill grace and looked at them. 

“It’s Hebrew.”

“That’s what the old man thought. What’s it say?”  

Morse blinked. “I appreciate your faith in me, Jim, but I can’t read  _every_  language.”

“Well, will you come and help, all the same? It’s odd, isn’t it? Spare bits of paper with just these few characters? Box just took a look at them and tossed them back into the bin.”

Morse’s mouth went tight at that—it was the same face Morse had made at him when he first met him on the stairs, all those years ago, when he told him he had been in the loo.

 

It was the right thing to say—stoking that sense of rivalry Morse felt with Thursday’s new guv’nor.  Strange could tell he had him hooked.

Morse pretended to consider the papers for a moment. “I suppose I could. But if I’m to consult, I’m going to do it properly. I’ll want to see everything you have in evidence, just for example.”

Strange huffed a laugh. “We just found the body. We don’t have _anything_ in evidence yet, matey.”

“Fine. But when you do, I’ll want full access. I’m not allowing . . . “

But then, he broke off mid-sentence and sneezed. He looked up at him, his large blue eyes round, as if horrified.

“What’s the matter, matey?”

 “Nothing, ” he said. “Look, I have to go in and . . . and change.”

Strange snorted a laugh. “I’d say you do.”

Inexplicably, Morse looked down at himself, as if he didn’t know what he was wearing.

“Oh, yes,” he said, absentmindedly, slowly backing into the house. “Just wait here and I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

“ _Twenty_   _minutes_?” Strange protested. How long could it take him to throw on a suit, for God’s sakes? But Morse was already closing the door on him.

“Can’t I at least wait in the house?” Strange protested. 

“Oh,” Morse said, swinging the door open. “Yes. Well, all right,” he said begrudgingly.

He led him inside and gestured to the large drawing room, a high-ceilinged room with red walls and bright white painted molding and trim, with billowing curtains framing tall windows thrown open to catch the breeze. The record, thank God, had finished, and was slowly revolving around the label.

“Just. Just wait there,” Morse said. Then he seemed to walk backward out of the room.

Strange could hear him in the hall and then bolting up the stairs, as though he was taking them two at a time.  

 

Strange shook his head and wandered into the room, sinking heavily into one of the ivory sofas. Morse’s records were scattered before him, all over the coffee table. Terrible stuff, it all was, too. Next time he was out, Strange made a mental note to buy him something a bit less out of date.

That ought to smooth things over.

 

The record continued to hum around the label.

Strange would have gotten up and put the needle back on the rest if he was certain Morse wouldn’t throw a fit about it, about his touching his sacred record player.

 

Inscrutable buggar.

 

*****

 

It was five minutes Endeavour wished with all of his heart that he could wipe from his mind forever.

There were times, when he had first left the snug dimensions of the lake house, that he feared he might fly to pieces, that he might go mad—but now he could see the wisdom of it, of how he had tried to make sense of his fragmented past.

 

There were times when his Morse life and his Endeavour life really _should_ be kept quite separate.

And this was certainly one of them.

 

He pulled the stopper in the sink and cranked the water to cold; then he cranked the water in the shower to hot and peeled off the kilt.

Between he and Bix, the thing was a mess. He tossed it into the filling sink, filching some of sort of laundry soap for hand washables from Bixby’s cabinet and dumping a generous amount in.

He shut the sink off and stepped under the hot water of the shower, soaping up his hair, running his fingers through his waves as if to remove that portion of his brain that held that awful juxtaposition—the transition from Bixby, debauched and spent in his leather chair, his dark eyes gone darker with satiated passion, to Jim Strange, polished and shining and positively bouncing on his toes with relentless enthusiasm for whatever it was he was digging around in now. God only knew what he was up to these days, what things he was sticking his nose in.

Hmmm. Somehow, Strange had become . . . a bit like him, actually.

 

At any rate, the next time he pulled Bixby down on top of him, the last person he wanted to be thinking of was . .....

“Jim Strange is downstairs, do you know?” Bixby called.

 

Through the fogged glass of the shower, Endeavour could see Bix sauntering into the bath.

Then, there was a startled cry.

“What? This is all wrong for wool. It’s for silk. For ties and things. Didn’t you read the label?”

“No,” Endeavour said.

 

He could hear Bix letting the water out of the sink, doubtless doing everything over “the right way.” He could be awfully fussy sometimes, but Endeavour suspected it was such attention to detail that allowed him to pull off the elaborate hoax he had lived with for so long.  

 

“Well?” Bix said. “What does Strange want?”

 “Just don’t say that name. Not for a few minutes, anyway. Not until I’m dressed.”

Bixby laughed. “You were the one who answered the door. I thought I was hallucinating.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I thought you were making me hear bells ring, old man. That the blood was thumping in my temples like a knocking on wood.”

Endeavour slid the shower door open a bit and peeked out, giving him a severe look. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that’s quite an accomplishment.”  Then he slid the door back with a thud.

Bixby shrugged. “Don’t be so prickly. It could have been worse. He could have just come on in.”

“Wouldn’t you have loved that,” Endeavour said, sullenly.

 

Amazingly, there was a pause from beyond the door, as if Bixby was actually mulling this over.

 

“Well, I won’t lie. I have fantasized about the whole idea. But not Strange, I don’t think. I sort of have in mind someone who might get a little thrill out of watching, who might even be a bit envious of me. Not someone who might blunder on in and say, “Blimey, matey. How does that even . . . “

“Stop!” Endeavour shouted. “StopStopStopStopStop! Stop! Stop!”

 

Bixby really was a little _too_ talented of a mimic. For a moment, it seemed almost as if . . . . .the sergeant was right outside the door.

 

**********

Endeavour stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie.

“So? A case is it, then?” Bixby asked.

“A murder in the Bodleian, evidently. The head librarian.”

“Ah. Well. That sounds about right. Are you going to take it?”

“Yes,” Endeavour said, checking the knot from another angle. “It’s my chance to . . . nothing.”

“Your chance to _what_?” Bixby asked, shrewdly. “Not to prove yourself, surely? Haven’t you done that several times over by now? Reese and Dawkins and Van Horne’s set? How many unsavory characters does Oxford’s finest expect a poet to round up, exactly?”  

“No, it’s not that.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

 

“I have some keys,” Endeavour said.

 

Bixby looked at him, his tanned face impassive. “You don’t say,” he said.

“Some keys I . . . . took out of evidence.”

“Ah.” Bixby said. “So.  It’s your chance to slip them back, then? No one the wiser?”

“Yes,” Endeavour said. “Something like that.”

Bixby laughed. “ _Exactly_ like that, from the sound of it. He frowned, then, looking thoughtful. “We _are_ going back to France, aren’t we? You do want to go home, still, at the end of the summer, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Endeavour said. “Why?”

“Hmmmm,” Bixby said. “No reason. Well, then. That being so, after this case, just, be sure you empty your pockets, all right? Check your bag, last thing before you leave Castle Gate. With my passport, I can’t afford to be arrested for smuggling police evidence out of the country.”

“Ha ha.” Endeavour said.

Bixby smiled, bemusedly. “I wasn’t joking that time, old man.”

 

******

 

“Ah, Morse. Good of you to join us,” Max said, dryly.  

“Who is this, then?” Endeavour asked. 

“Osbert Page. Chief Librarian. Found by Lucy Paroo, one of the juniors. Single stab wound to the back. Defensive injuries. A pretty vicious attack. Cause of death most likely to be a massive hemorrhage.”

“Time?”

“Twelve to eighteen hours.”

Endeavour glanced up at the library clock and let the hands wind backwards in his mind.

 

 _Like_ _a_ _clock_ _whose_ _hands_ _are_ _sweeping_ _past_ _the_ _minutes_ _of_ _its_ _face_.

 

 “The library would have closed about seven last night. Someone must have been waiting then, amidst the stacks,” Endeavour said.

 

Endeavour’s eyes roamed the room. It would have been around seven. The library would just be closing. The summer evening light would have glowed softly through the stained-glass windows. The readers had left, and Mr. Page, ever the efficient custodian of the books entrusted to his care, was walking crisply among the stacks, looking sharp for any stragglers not of a mind to heed the closing bell.

 

As Endeavour imagined the room as it must have been, Max, too, was working backwards, showing Thursday, Box and Strange the splatters of blood amidst the books, retracing Mr. Page’s last steps, back to the point to where his last moments began, back to the beginning of his end.

 

But Endeavour had no wish to look at all the blood and gore—it was terrible enough to behold as it was, let alone amidst the sanctity of a library.

 

Now that he had set the scene, he was not interested in following Mr. Page backward, but rather following someone else forward. Someone who had hidden among the stacks with a wood chisel—a craftsman? a laborer? He—and it most probably was a _he,_ to have the strength to drive a wood chisel into a man’s back with the force to kill—would have gone the other way, then.

Endeavour studied the floor, noting faint traces of dirt and mud on the polished oak.

He followed the trail of dirt to the back door. He opened it and went out onto the landing of a staircase. There, on the dark marble steps, the dirt was thrown into relief, so that the shapes that it formed were clear—large, muddy boot prints, leading away from the scene.

“Sir,” Endeavour called.

In a moment, Thursday came to the door.  

“Muddy boot prints.”

“Oh yes,” Max said. “There’s evidence of mud and dirt amidst the blood. Sample’s been taken by forensics.  Give you the full gen once it’s in.”

Endeavour scrutinized the prints: they belonged to a fairly large man.

A large man who wasn’t at all frightened or conflicted by what he had done, a large man who didn’t give a damn about leaving a trail almost a mile wide behind him.

 ********

 

Lucy Paroo painted a simple but telling portrait of her former chief: he no family, he lived alone, he was set in his ways, he was disagreeable when the mood was on him. He had only two loves: his library and his walking. He was a keen rambler.

He sounded for all the world like just one more lonely old man. Who would want to kill him? With such force and violence?

 

“Who else was here last night?” Endeavour asked.  

“Just a few of the regulars. Professor Burrowes and Dr. Nicholson,” Miss Paroo said. “They were sitting just there,” she added, pointing to two tables behind him. “There and there.”

Endeavour turned around. On one table, a large volume remained. The murder must have happened right after closing, then. Mr. Page had not yet had the chance to put the book away.

Endeavour picked it up and looked at the title. “ _Memoirs of a Voluptuary,”_ he read aloud.  “Isn’t that part of the Phi Collection?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What’s the Phi Collection?” Box asked.

“Obscene and libelous works that aren’t available to all readers. A special request has to be made to the librarian for access,” Endeavour explained.

“So, someone was getting his jollies, you mean,” Box said with a snicker.  

“That must have been Dr. Nicholson’s,” Miss Paroo said. “He was always after one book or another from the collection. Mr. Page got quite batey about it, at times.”

 

Endeavour raised his eyebrows at that. Could Mr. Page have gotten wind of something untoward about Dr. Nicholson? Did Nicholson’s tastes run beyond simply reading about salacious acts? Endeavour’s thoughts went immediately to his first case with Thursday, to those repulsive old bastards who traded in photographs of young school girls.

 

 “I’d be grateful of a list of the other books he asked for,” Endeavour said.

Miss Paroo nodded briskly.

“Oh,” Endeavour asked. “I don’t suppose you remember anyone wearing a pair of muddy boots?”

“Muddy boots?”

“Mmmmm.”

“No,” she said. “Mr. Page would not have stood for that.”

“Right,” Endeavour said.

*****

 

Osbert Page’s house was a tip: tables turned over, drawers pulled out, papers cast like snow drifts across the dark carpet.

“Well, either Osbert Page was the untidiest librarian to ever draw breath . . .” Thursday began.

“. . . Or someone’s beaten us to it,” Endeavour concluded.

Across all the debris, bold as brass, a set of muddy boot prints stamped themselves across the floor. And across one lone piece of paper that stood out amidst the rest. Endeavour picked it up.

“Anything?” Thursday asked.

“Well, not unless this map of the Gower has any bearing.”

“What’s that?” Thursday asked, pointing out a few characters on the map. “Greek, is it?”

“Mmm,” Endeavour said. “ _Anemoi_. Wind gods.”

“What about that?” Thursday asked, “ _HB?_ Mean anything?”

“ _HB_?” Endeavour mused. Then he shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Happen whoever turned this place over found what they were looking for. I’ll get forensics over. Let’s give those readers at the library a spin.”

 

A spin.

They were a spin.

 

 _And_ _the_ _world_ _is_ _like_ _an_ _apple_ _whirling_ _silently_ _in_ _space_.

 _Like_ _the_ _circles_ _that_ _you_ _find_... 

 

Muddy boots prints and Greek wind gods and Hebrew characters and a wood chisel and HB.

It meant nothing. But it must mean something.

******

The porter at the colleges told them that someone had been playing pranks on Dr. Nicholson. Leaving amulets in his cubby. Writing the word _Dora_ on the blackboard at his tutorials.

It all sounded odd—it was far too late in the year for rag week pranks—and Dr. Nicholson, when they met him, was just as puzzling.

He seemed nondescript enough—steel gray curing hair, sharp dark eyes, closed expression. But his wife, ostensibly, had been out the night of the murder, so he had no one to vouch for him.

You would think he would be eager to talk to them, to clear up any doubt that might surround him, as one of the last people to see Mr. Page alive. But no, he seemed keen to end their interview as soon as possible.

 

Although, who knew? Maybe he was simply embarrassed to have been caught at checking so many items out of the Phi Collection, at having his reading habits exposed. He claimed to be writing a paper on erotica of the Edwardian era, but, well. . . Thursday was right.

“Racy go for a numbers man, I would have thought,” Thursday said.

“I assure you that it’s very popular,” Dr. Nicholson sniffed.

“Well-thumbed, I’m sure,” Thursday hummed.

 

The man was impossible to pin down—he didn’t want to talk about the items left in his cubby, about the word “Dora” written on his board. He didn’t know what the odd little trinkets even were, he didn’t know anyone named Dora, he said, and his eyes flickered nervously.

 

And he didn’t know Mr. Page personally at all, and, unless there was anything else, he had to be going.

And he swept out of the room and left them there, without so much as parting glance. 

 

“Of course, he’s lying,” Endeavour said, at once. He had no evidence, it was just a feeling, somewhere in his gut, and he waited for Thursday’s reproof.

But none came.

“Of course, he is,” Thursday said. “But why?”

********************

Whereas Dr. Nicholson made it clear he did not care to speak to them, Professor Burrowes, in contrast, wanted to do nothing _but_ talk. With bushy white hair and a quick smile, he was like nothing so much as a lonely grandfather, spinning out the conversation so as to delay the moment his children would go home for the night. He talked about prawns and fossils and a walking tour he had made in Germany back in ‘32. The porter had hinted that the man had suffered a broken heart at some point along the line—and Endeavour could see how it must be so—what with all these little interests and hobbies to fill the void left by the one thing that he really wanted.

He was someone trying to make the best of things. He was someone trying to rise above his grief.

 He was Mrs. Bright after the loss of Dulcie.

 

And he was interested in stamps, of course. Why not? He had nothing else to do to fill the evenings, and Endeavour felt a surge of homesickness for Bixby, even though he had just left him a few hours before.

 

“Er, this is about poor Mr. Page, is it?” the old man said, finally allowing them to get to the point of their visit.

“You’ve heard,” Thursday said.

“Yes. Terrible thing.”

Professor Burrowes had been at the library that night, he said, evaluating letters and historical documents left by the late Mr. Teagarden.

 

“Did anyone see you leave?” Thursday asked.

“Mr. Jenkins, the porter, did. He always has time for a quick word, Jenkins,” Professor Burrowes said.  

“Anyone one at home?” Thursday asked.

“I’m afraid not,” the old man said, and then he confirmed what Endeavour had thought all along. “I’m a confirmed old bachelor, I’m afraid. Another old fossil.”

 

Thursday sighed heavily. “You and me both Professor.”

 

Endeavour felt a surge of anger at that. What rot. Thursday had had a decades-long marriage, two children, years of love and devotion and sandwiches. He was going through a rough patch, certainly, but he knew nothing, nothing, really, of the years of loneliness that Professor Burrowes had worked to keep at bay.

 

If only Thursday would take just _one_ of his suggestions. He was certain that Mrs. Thursday was waiting, just waiting for the excuse to forgive him.

All he had to do was give her the reason. Just one.

By god, he was a stubborn sod.

*********

Teagarden.

Treegarden?

Baumgarten?

Perhaps the case was going somewhere, after all.  The surname sounded as if it could easily be Jewish—perhaps Miss Teagarden could shed some light on the odd bits of paper Strange had found in the bin?

Miss Teagarden, as luck would have it, was at home when they called. It was her grandfather she said, who had left the collection that Professor Burrowes was evaluating as a bequest to the library. He had come to England in 1911. His brother had been a brilliant physicist whose family had been killed in a labor camp during the war.

 

“Do you read Hebrew?” Endeavour asked.

“A little,” she said.

He held up the word that he had copied into his notebook. “Have you any idea what this means?”

“ _Emet_ meanstruth,” she said simply. 

“What about this?” Endeavour asked, holding up another page.

 “ _Mavet_ ,” she said. “Death.”

Her dark eyes looked thoughtful for a minute. 

“It reminds me of a story my grandfather used to tell me when I was small. According to myth, those are the words of power, which, when placed in the mouth of a golem, give it life.”

“A what now?” Thursday asked.

“A golem. In Jewish folklore, it’s a figure made of mud or clay, which will do its maker’s bidding,” she explained.

 

Thursday and Endeavour exchanged looks. What could it mean? Had Mr. Page been killed at someone’s bidding? Dr. Nicholson’s? Were the figures left in his cubby meant as a warning by someone who knew the truth? An attempt at blackmail?

But what motive did the man have for murder, other than a few arguments about library books?

There had to be something else.

 

Endeavour’s mind was turning in circles, like those of a field of windmills. HB and windgods, a map of the Gower. Books from the Phi Collection and amulets and walking tours of Germany. And the name “Dora.”

 

This assembly of pieces: it was surreal, it was unfathomable, it was his Oxford. Where the Greek wind gods blew the breath of life into a Hebrew clay figurine.

 

“There’s a connection,” Endeavour said. “I’m just not seeing it yet.”

“You will when you’re thinking straight,” Thursday said.

“Mmmmmm.”

Thursday glanced, then, at his watch. “If I’m not careful, I’ll be late for DeBryn. I’ll fill you in, eh? I’m not sure if I have time to run you back. You can catch a cab, though, yeah?”

“I rather fancy a walk,” Endeavour said. “It’ll give me the chance to think things through.”

“That’s a long way, Morse.”

“Not really, sir. I don’t walk along the road. Cut through the woods and it’s just two miles once I’m out of Oxford.”

“All right. Call me when you get there, then. Let me know if that big brain of yours has worked this one out.”

“Mmmmmmm.”

*****

It was a relief, actually, not having to go the autopsy. Not that he would ever admit it to Max—but he had never become accustomed to it, the corpse, the clinical coldness of metal and tile.... the blood. But now that he could trust Thursday to fill him in on the details, there was no need for him to go. This whole consulting job was a bit of the best of both worlds, really.

Although, he couldn’t say he had yet to see a check . . .

 

Up ahead, on the sidewalk, Endeavour saw Mr. Bright, just stepping out of the chemist’s. He was carrying a white bag, blinking in the bright light, as if the contrast between the dark shop and the bright summer’s day was a bit much for him. He looked tired, more tired than even on that day he had brought him Max’s hamper.

“Mr. Bright?”  

“Ah. Morse. Good heavens.”

“Hello, sir. How are you?”

“Doing well,” he said, his firm face set, “As can be expected,” he added.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud rumble from the building by the chemist’s. Mr. Bright and Endeavour exchanged puzzled glances and walked cautiously down the sidewalk, as if by silent agreement, trying to discern what the noise had been.

They paused in front of a large high-rise building.

“Was that a gas explosion, perhaps?” Mr. Bright said. “We ought to ca. . . .”

And then, there was another tremendous rumble, and before their eyes, an entire corner of the building began to shiver and then to break away from the whole in an avalanche of small rocks.

“Good heavens!” Mr. Bright said.

The entire building was shaking now, as if it were imploding, and—through the front lobby doors, circling amidst the debris—Endeavour saw a little girl, twirling like the ballerina in a music box. The air around her was thick with dust, and she was spinning, looking for the direction of the light, looking for the way out of the crumbling building.

Endeavour sprinted toward the doors.

 

“Morse!” Mr. Bright shouted.

 

But he did not have the time to explain. The building was roaring now, at full throttle. There wasn’t much time.

He ripped the door open and shouted. “Hello! Hello!”

She most likely could not see a thing—being in the midst of the confusion. The lights had cut out in a flurry of sparks and buzzing wire, and the air was thick with plaster dust. But perhaps she might follow the sound of his voice.

A beam fell behind Endeavour, and he plunged forward, leaving the light from outside behind. Now, all was in shadow.

 “Hello? he called. “This way. This way to the door!”

He didn’t see her, so much as he felt the two small arms grasp him around the waist, as if she was catching onto a lifeline amidst a crashing of waves, a pull of a sweeping current. And there wasn’t any more time to run. There was a roar and one last immense and explosive sound, like a tear in cloth, but harsher, like a tear in concrete, that sent Morse’s ears ringing. And then chunks of the building were falling, pelting his shoulders like hail.

He curved himself around the small girl who remained clinging to him, as if by doing so his body might protect her from the debris. A part of him understood how futile a gesture it was—he was larger than she was, but in comparison to a falling building, he was small protection indeed.

 

And then the building was falling, and he never would have thought that this, of all things, would be what ended him.

 

 If it was going to be a building that crushed him, he would have thought it would have been the ruins of that Victorian monstrosity, the one he had stumbled about in last summer, throwing bricks and looking for pieces of himself, lost in the madness of whatever it was that had been in Nick Wilding’s wine—not this streamlined and modern high rise, one he had never been in, one that meant nothing to him.

The world was thick with dust, and he breathed concrete and not air, and he thought wildly of Bix, who would be alone now, once again a remote and careless figure flipping a gold gambling chip, without anyone to know his true name, the name he scarcely even ever called him.

 _I’m_ _sorry_ , _Joss_ , he thought and then the little girl screamed and buried her face deeper into his diaphragm, and the world turned to black.

****************

Max arrived upon a scene of chaos. There were police officers and medics and first aid volunteers, and sirens screaming though the air with the promise of more help to come.

But no one seemed to know quite what to do.

It was overwhelming: the entire northeast corner of the building had been sheered away into an avalanche of broken chunks of concrete and corroded steel. God only knew how many people were buried, alive, dead, or dying under the rubble.

Amidst the shrieks and wails came a clear and familiar weedy voice, issuing commands. Max turned to see Mr. Bright, spare and lean in a civilian’s gray suit, marching through the confusion, pointing this way and that, barking orders as he went. For all that he was retired, he seemed to be the only one on the scene to have kept a clear head, and he shouted directions with an air of brisk authority that seemed to cut through the fog, that sent the paralyzed workers, stunned with shock, moving into action.

“What do we do? Where do we start?” DCI Box shouted, his usually smug face replaced with one of utter horror, so that he looked years younger somehow, his mouth open in disbelief. “What the hell happened?” 

“What happened is immaterial for the moment,” Mr. Bright said. “All that matters now is the preservation of life.”

“You think anyone survived that?” Box asked.

Mr. Bright faltered, showing, just for a moment, a chink in his armor.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But if they did, it’s up to us to get them out.”

He turned then and called to a few younger officers.

“Williams, Benson, Davis. Let’s get a human chain organized, yes? Start clearing out some of this rubble.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in union.

 

“DeBryn!” Mr. Bright called.

Max blinked in surprise at the brusque hail.

“Yes?” Max replied.

“I was just talking to Morse, and . . . “

 

For a moment, Max was bewildered. Why on earth would the man chose right now to catch him up on the news of a mutual acquaintance?

 

“. . . And he just turned, suddenly, and darted right into the building.”

 

It took Max a moment to work this out.

“You mean, just now?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why?” Max asked.

“No idea,” Mr. Bright said. “But he was just there, just at the entrance. He can’t be too deep under this.” His face betrayed not a flicker of emotion, but Max understood all too well.

Max had to begin somewhere. The dead, and there would be many among their numbers, were patient—they could wait. But if anyone managed to live through this horror, time would be of the essence.

So why not begin where the rubble was not so deep? Why not begin where the people he uncovered might still be alive?

Why not begin where he might find Morse?

 

Max set down his bag at the edge of the mountain of debris and began to carefully lift the chunks of concrete.

He wondered at what could have led Morse to do such a foolish, foolish thing.

He wondered at how it could be possible that Morse, with his sharp and puzzling mind, watchful blue eyes, and curls that smelled of leaves and old paper and a rich man’s aftershave—curls that, only a few weeks ago, had brushed his face as he swung next to him in that ludicrous hammock—might be gone, might be no more.

And he wondered most of all at himself, at the spiral of regret the felt like a shard of glass in his heart.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Morse had asked.

“No,” Max said.

 

It felt like a weight in his chest so heavy as to cause physical pain, to think of all the things he would have told him— if only he had known it would be his last chance to do so.

 


	10. “A Golem is a Figure Made Out Of Clay”

Max was torn: a part of him was tempted to simply begin seizing chunks of the rubble and tossing them out to the perimeter. But he was more than a mere laborer. If he injured his hands, he would be of little use to any survivors he might uncover.

The afternoon sun was beating fiercely; Max could feel the heat of it against his white shirt. He had long since shed his jacket, and even his tie, and yet, beads of sweat were running freely down his face. He lifted one forearm and wiped at his brow. Around him the world was full of shouts and calls and the wail of sirens—a flurry of motion and action—but Max had a mind only for the task at hand.

He worked slowly and methodically, careful not to injure his hands—nor anyone who might be below the debris even further than they most likely already were.

 

And then, he was rewarded. As he lifted one oblong piece of concrete, the back of his hand brushed against something soft and wet, rather than rough and broken.

He knew Morse’s curls by their texture and shape rather than color—it was as if his hair had been dyed gray, so thick was it with dust.

Across the back of his head, a long gash was bleeding freely, a tell-tale stripe of red soaking into the gray. The cut itself looked miraculously shallow—but it was wide enough to require stiches, and the blow that caused it, Max thought, must have been forceful enough to have caused a concussion.

 Yet, the flow of blood spoke of a heartbeat, a pulse, and Max felt a surge of relief and a surge of anger. Confound the man. Had he not even the sense to throw his hands up to protect the back of his head?  Why had he run into this infernal place to begin with?

Max cleared a pile of smaller bits of rubble away, and then circled around carefully, putting a hand on Morse’s shoulder.

“Morse?” he asked. “Morse?”

Morse shifted under his touch and groaned miserably. No doubt the chap was black and blue from head to toe. Max ran a gentle hand down his arm, trying to waken him from his stupor.

He moaned once more and looked up, and Max’s heart jumped, as Morse’s eyes, two intensely blue points in his dust-covered face, blinked open.

“Morse? Are you all right?”

It was clear that he wasn’t. His eyes were dilated and strangely glazed. “Oh, Max,” he said unhappily.

“Morse, can you tell me where it most hurts?”

But Morse seemed to be thinking of something else. He was slowly working to sit himself up and . . .

“Careful, now,” Max cautioned, keeping a supportive hand firm on his arm.

For a moment Max thought the heat must have been getting to him at last: It was bizarre—like watching a flower unfold to reveal a tiny, sleeping fairy. As Morse slowly and gingerly inched his way up, Max found himself looking at a little girl, with two thick pigtails, who was curled beneath him, clinging to his waist.

All of his frustration with Morse fell away. He must have seen the child trying to get out, and had gone to help her, then; he must have encircled his arms around her at the last moment, as the beams gave way above them.

Morse looked down at the girl. “Are you alright?” he asked, thickly.

Her eyes flew open at his words. The child had been conscious the entire time, terrified, no doubt, trapped beneath Morse and the piles of rubble.

“The building fell on us,” she said, in wonder.

It was a bit of an exaggeration; it had really been only a corner of it. But Morse didn’t seem of a mind to dispute it.

 “Yes,” he said, sounding just as bewildered as the child. “It did.”

“Do you know where my mother is?” she asked.

“No,” Morse said.

 

“When did you last see her?” Max asked.  

“She had just made me some soup,” she said. “And the whole flat began to tremble. We tried to run down the stairs. But the ceiling started to fall. She told me to run, and so I did, but, when I turned around,” and here the little girl’s eyes welled with tears, “she was gone.”

Morse turned to Max, looking horrified, and right away, Max could tell the same thought had crossed both of their minds. The young woman had been brave beyond words. It would have been her impulse to hold her child close, to protect her, but— in that moment—she must have had to go against every instinct she had.

She must have known, in that moment, that the safest course for her child would be to send her away from her.

Morse blinked rapidly. “My friend is a doctor,” he began.

 

And Max’s heart seized up like a fist. He dearly hoped that Morse would not make false promises, promises he might not be able to keep.

 

“He can help to look for her,” he said.

 

And Max could breathe again.

 

Yes.

He could certainly do that.

 

“Thank you,” the little girl said, softly.

“What’s your name?” Morse asked.

“Sandra,” she said.

“I’m Endeavour,” Morse said.

 

The word surprised him: Max knew that Morse used his Christian name now, but he had never quite become accustomed to hearing it.

 

“Come on, then,” Morse said, trying to sit up, trying to free himself the rest of the way, giving her room to stand.

 

As he rose up to his knees. Morse’s eyes fell over the wreckage, and he seemed to pale even further beneath the layer of dust.

“Oh, Max,” he said, and his voice cracked as he said the two words, as though he was on the verge of tears.

At first, Max thought that it was for himself that he lamented; Morse must surely realize that he had suffered a head injury— one Max was anxious to further assess once he had ascertained that the little girl was, indeed, as sound as she appeared to be.

 

But then, as he looked into the depths of Morse’s startling blue eyes, he realized that Morse’s sorrow was for him.

 

It would be a long day for him, indeed. God only knew where they would put them all; the dead from this day might be enough to overflow every mortuary in Oxford. And there would be children. Whole families, perhaps, who might yet to be found, clinging to one another. There might perhaps even be a young woman whose true bravery only he and Morse and the little girl with them might ever know.

 

“I’m sorry,” Morse said, quietly.

 And Max nodded. It helped somehow. He knew that to so many, he was, indeed, little more than the job he performed. It was something like a comfort to know that there was one person, at least, who understood how dearly this day would cost him.

 

The little girl pulled herself free, then, and stood amidst the rubble. Morse remained on his knees, and turned away from her as she rose, raising his arm and coughing harshly into the crook of his elbow.

“That’s it,” Max said. “Get it out.”

Morse moaned again and moved to put his hand to the back of his head. Max took his wrist just in time; Morse’s hands were filthy—covered in dust and god-only-knew-what materials that had been put into the obviously cut-rate building—the very last thing Morse needed was to probe the wound with them.

It seemed the most natural action in the world, and Max had been quite sure that Morse saw it coming—that Morse knew his intent—but as Max seized his wrist, he uttered a cry of protest and struggled to pull his arm free, even though he scarcely had the strength.

“Morse!” Max shouted. “Morse!”

“No!” Morse shouted. “No, Max!”

“Morse!” Max said, more sharply.

Morse stilled and listened.

“You’ve a high enough risk of infection as it is, without you causing more damage. Now let me take a look.”

“No, Max,” Morse said again. He lurched back, trying to pull himself away, to pull himself completely clear of the rubble, hell-bent, it seemed, on getting away from him.

Max summoned as much authority into his voice as he was able. “Morse! Morse! Stop this!”

Morse looked at him, wide-eyed and strangely fearful.

“Morse,” Max said. “You need to calm yourself.”

“No,” Morse said, his voice shaking. “It’s fine. Just . . . just leave it.”

 

“Morse,” Max said, again. “Stop this. If you will be afraid, she will be afraid.”

 

This, thankfully, seemed to catch his attention. His eyes darted to Sandra, who was standing stock-still, watching their struggle, her dark eyes round with worry.

“Sorry,” Morse said.

Max raised his hands, in a gesture meant to show that he intended no harm. “I’m not going to touch it. Just look. All right?”

Morse seemed to drain further, but he looked resolute enough. “All right,” he said.

Max snapped on a pair of gloves from his bag and moved around to Morse’s side. He put his hand up to the back of Morse’s head, two or so inches above the wound, to pull the dust-coated curls, matted with drying blood, back for a better look. Morse flinched for a moment and then went still.

“You’re going to need stiches. And I think you might have a concussion,” Max said.

“I know,” Morse said, quietly. “I remember seeing the building falling, but . . . I don’t know how I got here. I . . . ”

He let the sentence drift away, and immediately he turned to make sure that the satchel he usually carried was at his side, still safely strung over his shoulder.

He seemed to sag a bit with relief when he put his hand on it, and Max couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking that his notebook might catch him up on what it was he had been doing all that day with Thursday. He was most likely suffering from a bit of short-term memory loss, after such a blow.

“Can you stand?” Max asked.

Morse rose gingerly to his feet, Max keeping a hand firmly on his arm as he did so in case he faltered.

Max nodded to the pool of medics and ambulances at the edge of the site. “Take Sandra over to the ambulances. They can take you to hospital.”

“But . . . but can’t you . . .”  

“No, Morse, I think you know that I can’t,” Max said. He knew all too well that Morse was accustomed to him patching him up and sparing him from more formal attention, but Morse’s wounds were not critical—any medic with only a few months’ experience could tend to them—and the hospital would be far better equipped to assess what other injuries he might have sustained than he could, standing in the midst of a mountain of broken concrete and steel, with nothing to aid his diagnosis save his field kit.

No. His role for the time being would be only to patch people up enough to get them safely to hospital, where they would be better tended. And, for now, there were others, far too many others, who needed Max more than Morse did.

“But I don’t want to go to hospital,” Morse said.

“But I want to wait for my mother,” Sandra said.

“Morse,” Max said.

It was the weariness in his voice, Max was certain, and not the rising impatience, that led Morse to comply.

Morse swallowed. “Come on, Sandra,” he said.

Her hand fell naturally in his, and together they picked their way out of the rubble; they had known each other only a few minutes, but they were united in their feelings of mutiny against him.

Max watched them out of the corner of his eye as he continued to work to be sure they were headed in the right direction, to make sure they obeyed him.

Although, on this day at least, Morse was free to be as difficult as he wanted to be, and Max would accept it with gratitude.

 

*****

Endeavour’s ears would not stop ringing. It was a high-pitched wail that overlaid everything else. The sun was too hot and bright and the people were too loud, calling to one another, shouting.

A few people tried to ask him questions, but he didn’t want to talk to them, he wanted to be left alone, so he only shook his head. Soon, he found, if he stood quietly, with his back to the side of one of the work trucks, no one noticed him in all of the fray. It was all about avoiding eye contact, a trick he had learned long ago.

He stood and waited with Sandra, until, mercifully, the girl’s mother was found, badly injured, but alive and conscious. She grasped Sandra’s hand and squeezed it as the medics rolled her by on the gurney, and Endeavour felt like he could breathe again. Sandra had made no mention of a father, and Endeavour found himself worrying that perhaps the girl’s parents were divorced, perhaps her father was remarried to a woman who would not want her, should her own mother die.

Once her mother was loaded into the ambulance, Sandra was allowed to scurry in with the medics, to ride with her to Cowley General.

“Goodbye,” she said, waving one small hand before the door was closed.  

Endeavour waved. “Goodbye.”  

 

As soon as the ambulance rolled away, Endeavour went and sat on the curb. He realized it was only adrenaline and fear for Sandra that had kept him going, and now that she was safely reunited with her mother, he was tired beyond words.

Max had said he should go to hospital, but he was far too exhausted for that. He didn’t want anyone asking him questions about the prime minister and all of those things Bix had bothered him with the last time he was there. And he certainly didn’t care to be prodded and probed by strangers. He really just wanted to go home, to sit with Bix on the couch and to have a Scotch.

If only he could get home, he would never leave it again.

 

Endeavour looked out over the scene, wondering what he should do next. Everyone was in motion, everyone seemed to have some sense of purpose. Amidst the workers, he saw Fancy and Trewlove and Strange and Mr. Bright. Even Box was so busy that he had forgotten to look smug—he only looked distressed, oddly lost and solitary without his flunky Jago.

 

Where was Jago, anyway?

 

He couldn’t ask any of them for a ride home, he knew that of, course. They were all so busy. Endeavour would like to help, but he just couldn’t. He felt a rattle in his chest and he started coughing again, into his sleeve. It was hell; it hurt not to cough, but it hurt to cough, too.

He was absolutely useless.

And then, something his father had once said came drifting back to him.  

 

“ _Christ_ , _but_ _you’re_ _useless_. _If_ _you_ _can’t_ _be_ _of_ _any_ _help_ , _get_ _the_ _hell_ _out_ _of_ _the_ _way_ _then_.”

 

He took a steadying breath, trying to settle the sharpness that was like a shard of rock in his chest, and then he stood up and started walking. Everyone was still shouting, everyone was covered in dust. Everyone was running in one direction, and Endeavour was walking in the other. In all the confusion, it would be easy to escape anyone’s notice, if he just walked quietly, with purpose.

If he just pretended he knew what he was doing.

He walked a few blocks until the world got quieter, until he found a red call box.

He went inside and put his hand on the receiver. And then he rested his head against it. He couldn’t remember his number. His mind circled and circled, but it just wouldn’t light on the right one.

And then it was there, not in his mind, but in his fingers, and he put a coin in the slot and then dialed the number.

An operator’s voice came on the line, so curt and crisp, Endeavour couldn’t tell if it was a person or a recording. The voice told him he had not inserted enough coins for the call to be completed as dialed. 

Endeavour scowled and dug around in his bag for more of the change that was lodged at the bottom. He rolled all the coins that he found into the slot, one at a time.

The phone began to ring.

 

“Von Haussen Dubret,” a voice said.

 

Morse blinked, confused.

Oh, hell. He must have been going on automatic, his finger following some blind pattern; rather than calling Bix, he had called the number he dialed most often. 

“Is Turner there?” he asked. “This is Endeavour Morse.”

He could hear the cluck of disapproval in the man’s voice, no doubt because he had spoken in English, but Endeavour could barely manage his own language at the moment. He thought for a moment that the man had hung up on him, but then there was a beep rather than a click.

“Turner,” a voice intoned.

“Turner?” Endeavour said. “It’s Endeavour Morse. Would you . . . . would you call my house for me?”

 

There was something strange about his voice, there was something that sounded far away to him, and he wondered if he was making any sense at all, even in English.

 

“Endeavour?” Turner asked. “Where are you?”

“I’m in a call box. A building fell on me.”

“A . . . _what_? Where are you?”

“A . . . I was . . . a building fell on me, and I can’t remember my phone number. Could you call Bix for me?”

“A call box? But where?”

 

Endeavour didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what he had he been doing. He had been at the Bodleian, and there were muddy footprints and the wind gods, and the building was blowing down.

 

“I don’t know where I am,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him: all of the chaos—it must surely be on the news. “Please. Please just call Bix. Tell him to turn on the television. They’ll say where it is.”

Endeavour hung up, before Turner could protest, before he could ask more questions. This way he would be forced to call Bix.

He was too tired to say anything else, anyway.

Endeavour sagged then, and leaned his head again against the receiver. If only he could have a Scotch.

Then he roused himself. It wouldn’t do to pass out here in the call box. Then he’d be found and taken to hospital and be forced to admit that he didn’t know who the hell the prime minister was, or what he had been doing all day.  

There was a bench nearby, and he managed to make his way over to it and sit on it. There. Now he was just a weary rescue worker taking a quick break.

He pulled out his notebook, to see if anything there might jolt his memory.

 

And his heart sank in fear.

 

He was going mad. Perhaps he had been going mad all day. Were these really his case notes? Dora and HB and Hebrew words and Greek wind gods and a golem is a figure made of clay and he felt like he was going to burst into tears, but he swallowed them back, he didn’t want anyone to notice him, to ask him questions he couldn’t answer.  

 

He put the wretched thing away and closed his eyes. And all the circles stopped. He was too tired to think anymore. He could do nothing but sit here and hope that Bix would find him.

 

****

Bixby had just hung up the phone after talking to his accounts manager in Paris, when the phone rang again.

He picked up the receiver and leaned back in his chair. “Bixby,” he said.

“Bix, Turner here. I just had the strangest phone call from Endeavour. Well, not the _strangest_ one, but, nevertheless. . . .”

Bixby leaned forward, sitting up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t seem to remember your number or to know where he is. He said . . . he said a building fell on him, and if you turn on the news, you will know where he is.”

 

Bixby felt a deep wash of cold run through his veins.

 

“ _What_?” he said.

“That’s just what he said. Do you know what he might mean?”

It was hard to know what to make of such a cryptic message, difficult to tell which scenario was more worrying—either Endeavour was having some sort of breakdown, or he had been involved in something catastrophic.

“No,” Bixby said. “But thank you for letting me know, old man.”

 

Bixby hung up the phone and walked to the living room at the back of the house, feeling almost dazed with dread. A _building_ fell on him? How could such a thing happen, exactly?

He didn’t know what he should hope for. Which was the more frightening prospect--that Endeavour had been involved in some sort of accident, or that he was spinning out of control, wandering onto some train to Scotland, out of his mind?

By the time he snapped on the television, his heart was racing.

 

And there it was.

 

“Christ,” Bixby breathed.

On the screen, a local news reporter was speaking quickly, in words too brisk for Bix to process. He could see only the savaged building crumbling in the background, the mountains of debris, a group of rescue workers carrying away a covered body on a stretcher.

And then Mr. Bright was on the screen, speaking calmly, reassuringly, saying that every effort was being made to aid the surviving residents of Cranmer House.

Cranmer House. The building was vaguely familiar to Bix. He realized, then, that it was on the route that Endeavour might take to take his ludicrous “short cut” to Lake Silence, the one that always did worry Bix. It’s only two miles, Endeavour always said, but it was closer to five. Was he really so lost in thought, Bix often wondered, that he didn’t notice?

 

It could really be true, then. But how could something like this happen?

Cranmer House.

That was . . . one of Clive Burkitt’s projects, wasn’t it?

And Bix felt a cold wash roll over him again. But not propelled, this time, by fear, but by rage.

 Call it gambler’s instinct, but somehow Bixby knew.

 

“Those bastards,” he breathed. “Those goddamned careless, greedy, beady-eyed bastards.”

 

The worst thing of it was, Bixby felt complicit. He had known full well what cut-rate cheats Burkitt and his loathsome little cabal all were.

Although he never would have imagined . . .

 

And how had it happened that Endeavour had gone into the place? Right at that moment? It felt almost like a reckoning.

It would have been easy to get angry, to give way to his feelings. But that was for baser men, for men who wasted time and energy. If he were Bruce Belborough, he might pick up a glass from the table and throw it right through the television screen.

But, unfortunately for Clive Burkitt, Bixby was not Belborough. He calmly turned the television off.

It might take some time, but Bix was sure of one thing.

Those bastards would pay for this.

 

***************

Bix cruised along in the canary yellow Jag, through the streets around Cranmer House, trying to get as close as he could to the vicinity of the building. Parts of the road had been closed off, and traffic was a confusion of rescue vehicles and people trying to get to the place—many, no doubt, fathers who were at work when the accident happened, trying to get home, hoping to be reunited with their wives and children.

He didn’t know where Endeavour might be, or how to go about finding him. So he had taken the yellow Jag, knowing that it would stand out, hoping that Endeavour might see _him_. It seemed an odd choice now; like a bit of glittering magic dust thrown into the air of a war zone.

As he rolled slowly along a side road, Bix saw him, sitting on a bench. It was difficult to recognize him, as he was covered in dust, but Bix knew it was him—not so much from his wild hair or his slight frame as by that nervous habit he had, of running his hand along the strap of his satchel when he was anxious.

As soon as Bixby slowed, Endeavour jumped up and lurched forward, unsteady on his feet, and opened the car door.

“Oh, God. It’s so awful,” he said, as soon as he collapsed into the seat. “It’s so bloody awful. I don’t know how many people must be dead.”

In a moment, Endeavour was sagging, leaning across the gear shift to wrap one arm tightly around Bixby’s shoulder and to bury his face in his chest.

 

 

Bixby felt a muscle in his jaw jump. God damn them all to hell. Was it worth it? Was it worth it to them, those extra pounds they had pocketed?

But, of course, Burkitt and his like wouldn’t give a damn. Not really. What did they care about riff raff like that—anyone who was worthwhile wouldn’t live in such a shoddy high-rise to begin with, anyone worthwhile wouldn’t try to farm land that turned to half-marsh after a week of hard rain.

 

Sure, they were sorry it happened. Sorry they might get caught. But they had their friends. Friends amongst the building inspectors. Friends amongst the judiciary. Friends amongst the police.

But they should have known this, too.

 

Anyone who ever made a deal made an enemy.

 

Bixby was lost in thought as Endeavour clung to him, utterly limp and spent. Bix lifted a hand to his nape, almost automatically, his mind a haze of half-formed plans.

And then he blinked.

His hand was warm and wet, and when he looked at it, he saw that it was stained with red.

He pulled back and moved Endeavour’s shoulder for a better look:  the back of Endeavour’s head was marked with a wide gash, his ash-tinted curls drizzled with dark red, seeping to bright red down the back of his white shirt.  

“What happened to you?” Bixby asked.

“Something hit me, I think,” Endeavour murmured.

“Why didn’t they take you to hospital?” Bixby asked. “The whole back of your shirt is covered in . . . ”

“Don’t say it!” Endeavour cried, cutting him off.

Then, he took a shuddering breath. “Please,” Endeavour said. “Just. Don’t say that word right now. It’s not serious. It will be fine.”

Bixby looked at him doubtfully.

“Head wounds always . . . . It will be fine. I don’t want to go there,” Endeavour said.  

“Endeavour,” Bixby said.  

“Please!” Endeavour said. “I don’t know who the prime minister is right now! I don’t know what I’ve been doing! Please! I can’t go there! I can’t. I _can’t_!”  

“The prime minister?” Bixby asked, wonderingly.  

But Endeavour seemed to be working himself into a blind panic. “I can’t, Bix,” he said again, and Bixby was about to protest, when, suddenly, he remembered last summer, when he had tried to convince Endeavour to leave with him to go the Thursdays’, after he found out Endeavour was going to be submitted to some sort of psychological evaluation.

“Please,” he cried. “Please. I just want to go home now. I’m so bloody tired.”

 

And what could Bixby say? It was his fault if he had made him terrified of the place.

 

“All right,” Bixby said. “Let’s go home.”

 

It was as if Bix had given him a last-minute reprieve when, all along, he had been preparing for his execution. The last thread holding him together snapped, and he gave up all pretense of control: he buried his face in his hands and began shaking, sobbing with relief. It was awful, it made Bix feel like hell, it was the same helpless feeling he had when they were back at that lake house, when Thursday had given him that letter to Tony from Bunny Corcoran.

 

*********

As soon as they pulled up into the drive, he could see it, that desperate look on Endeavour’s face that he had long since come to recognize.

Once Endeavour managed to get himself safely into the house, he was planning never to leave it again.

Well, that was fine, then. They had been through this all before. That was a bridge to cross when they came to it. For now, Bixby’s only goal was to get him cleaned up a bit, to try to get some of the grime away from that gash, to get a clean towel to staunch the bleeding.

 

It was like some sort of twisted parody of that morning—when Endeavour had been in the shower, while Bixby had teased him about the way he had leaped off of the desk and answered the door in a towering temper, only to find hapless Jim Strange at the door.

 

“I thought you were making me hear bells ring,” Bix had laughed, and Endeavour had opened the shower door to give him a pointed look.

“I’d say that’s quite an accomplishment,” he said, with that dry sarcastic air.

He was always annoyed by that sort of thing, but Bix could tell by the quirk of his mouth that he was pleased, too, all the same. Bixby knew he lacked confidence in that department.

 

But now, any such exchange seemed beyond him. Bixby helped him upstairs to the bath, and he walked along numbly, his eyes dazed and lifeless. He even let himself be undressed like a doll and put into the shower, without one wry word, one severe look.

 Bixby wasn’t quite sure what to do with him: he was covered in dust—somehow the stuff had even gotten all down his shirt. Under the water, the streaks of gray at once began to give way to pale; he was marble white under the grime, all color completely washed out, save for blue-black marks from where he must have been pelted with chunks of falling debris.

 

He didn’t even say anything when Bixby leaned in to help wash the dried blood and dirt from out of his matted hair, something he thought would be sure to raise a protest, considering how skittish Endeavour could be about anyone touching him right there, at the back of his head. Why that should be so, Bix had never felt inclined to conjecture, but he had learned long ago to keep his hand at Endeavour’s nape, to brush his hair back from his forehead or to tuck a curl behind his ear, instead.

But today, Endeavour was eerily silent and tractable, and Bixby wasn’t quite sure what to do: he didn’t want to leave the gash caked with grime and dried blood, but he didn’t want to worry it more, get it bleeding freely again, either.

 

“Don’t!” Endeavour said, sharply, as Bixby pulled one tangle of curls away. And Bixby was almost glad of it.

“Sorry, old man,” Bix said. “Your hair was all just matted up in it.”

“’S alright,” Endeavour said, sighing, oddly far away again.

He didn’t even object when Bix put him in a pair of decent pajamas, instead of one of those ratty t-shirts he was so fond of wearing when he was overtired, nor did he fight him, as Bix thought he would, when he couldn’t resist checking once more on the gash across the back of his head.

Damn. The thing was bleeding again. He knew Endeavour would never allow him to press a towel there, so he handed one to him, instead.

 

“Can you hold this? To stop the bleeding?”

Endeavour did as he was told, without comment.

“Did you have any one look at that?” Bixby asked.

“Max did.”

Bixby stilled at that. “DeBryn was there?”

“Yes. He found us.”

“Who is ‘us?’”

“Me and Sandra.”

Bixby frowned. “Who is Sandra?”  

“She was the little girl I saw, who couldn’t get out of the building. It was dark in there.”

“Ah,” Bixby said. “Was that why you went in?”

“Yes. But when I ran in the place a beam fell and I got turned around. And then I couldn’t remember how to get out, either. The air was all concrete.”

 

Bixby frowned again. He answered the questions well enough, but there was something definitely off in his voice, in the weirdly robotic way in which he answered. 

But, if DeBryn had turned him loose, it must be all right.

 

Endeavour sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, dutifully holding the thick towel to the back of his head. Then, he pulled it away.

“See. Look. It’s stopped again already,” he said.

He looked at the reddened towel and squeezed his eyes shut, as though he was fighting a wave of nausea.

“I need a Scotch,” Endeavour said miserably.

********

Endeavour stumbled downstairs to the drawing room and went straight to the decanter of Scotch. He poured himself a glass and downed it in one go.

Well. He did that deftly enough.

Then, he set the glass smartly on the table and exhaled sharply through his nose, as if he was trying to gather some resolve. For a moment, he looked almost like his old self, but then the spark faded, dissolving into a barrage of coughing.

“Oh, hell,” he managed.

He poured another Scotch, and Bixby worried he was going to have no other choice but to say something, even though he shouldn’t, even though such advice always backfired.

But, mercifully, Endeavour took only a few sips of the second and set it down. Then, he began an odd little ramble, half trailing, half stumbling off down the hall. Bixby wasn’t sure why, what aim he had in mind, and so he watched him, frowning in concern.

 

But then it was clear: he came back with an armful of cushions and throw pillows from the back room and dropped them onto the floor in front of his record player. Then he gathered up one throw pillow and then another from the drawing room sofas and tossed them into the pile as well.

Once he was satisfied, he walked over to the pile and collapsed into it.

 

It was his habit in the evenings to stretch out on the carpet to listen to his records—but, as he was black and blue from head to toe, he must have decided the floor alone was too hard for him.

 

“Why don’t you lie on the couch?” Bixby suggested.

“I don’t want the arms to touch me,” Endeavour said, stretching his legs out.   

Bixby frowned. Why hadn’t DeBryn booked him into the hospital? Was he truly alright? Bixby felt he was distinctly over his head.

 

From his pile of cushions, Endeavour sat up and placed a record on the turntable, and then set the needle on the rim. As the first strains of Faure’s Requiem filled the room, he laid himself down, settling into the pillows and closing his eyes.

Bixby watched him for a moment, his arms folded.

He looked peaceful enough, now.

Well, he just needed a rest, that was all. He would be fine.

 

But just as Bixby thought Endeavour was drifting off to sleep, he sat up again.

 “Where are you going?” Endeavour asked, his expression suddenly sharp and wary.

“Just to make a few phone calls,” Bixby said.

“Why?” he asked.

 

Well, there was no point in lying to him, candy coating the truth. Bixby had learned that long ago.

 

“You do know that wasn’t an accident. You know I am going to do something about this.”

Endeavour’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“ _Why_?” Bixby asked. “You can see it, certainly. It’s a reckoning, Endeavour. I knew. I knew they’ve been going with the lowest bidders. I knew there was corruption in the planning and housing department.”

“You didn’t know it was going on to that extent, surely. You didn’t know a building was going to collapse.”

“No,” Bixby conceded quietly. “No. But I knew the game they were playing. I’ve grown used to it. It used to shock me, when I started. And now it doesn’t anymore. I just took my cards and went home. And I didn’t say a thing. And now one of their shoddy contraptions collapses right at the moment when you happen to be inside? You think that’s just a coincidence?”

“Yes,” he said, simply.

“It’s a judgment, Endeavour. I had suspicions, and I did nothing. Well. No more. I’m going to do something now.”

“What’s this, then?” Endeavour asked, his voice dripping with contempt. “Some sort of Old Testament condemnation? ‘You have sinned against the Lord and be sure your sin will find you out?’”

Bixby stiffened. “Something like that,” he said.

“ _Exactly_ like that, you mean. The world doesn’t work that way. Your brimstone justice. You think all those people died today to teach you a lesson? What sort of arrogance is that?”

“That’s not . . . that’s not what I think.”

“Then what, then?”

“You always are making connections. You honestly don’t see it? I turn a blind eye to how they are cutting corners and then one of those very buildings nearly _kills_ you?”

 “I connect facts. I don’t deal in myth,” Endeavour said, in a voice that seemed awfully haughty for someone sitting amidst a pile of pillows on the floor. “Besides, why is it down to you to stop them? There will be an investigation, now, surely. They’ll be caught out.”

 

But Bixby shook his head. “Endeavour. You of all people must know that any such “investigation” will be an utter farce. A bribe to an inspector here, to a police officer there . . . and it’s ruled a gas leak. And they will go on. They’ll go on just as they have, and to hell with who gets hurt next. Do you want that?”

“No,” Endeavour said. “But . . .  it’s just not the way. It’s not . . . and . . .  I . . . and I don’t want you to go. Not now. Please.”

 

He held his hand out to his, and Bixby couldn’t help but walk back across the room and take it.

Endeavour threaded his fingers through his and tried to pull him down. “I . . . Won’t you just sit with me? Just for a while?”

Bixby sighed and sank to the floor beside him. “All right,” he said.

“Besides,” Endeavour said. “You like this one.”

“It’s all right,” Bixby conceded.

Bixby lay down, then, in that ridiculous pile of pillows, and Endeavour did, too, inching forward, so that his forehead was resting against his. It was all right for Endeavour—he was all long lines and angular grace; draped amidst the cushions so, he looked elegantly feline, distinctly Bohemian. But Bix felt clumsy and awkward—he was not one to loll about in the middle of the day, and his shirt would be damnably wrinkled . . .

. . . but it was all right.

Endeavour was right, it was pretty nice, this record, and, as he lay there next to him, the strain of pain and tension on Endeavour’s face seemed to ease away.

Endeavour leaned forward and kissed him; it was a soft thing with a surprising, tentative trace of passion.

“The last thing I thought of was that I would never see you again,” he said.

 

And what else could Bixby say to that? Of course, he would stay.

 

Endeavour settled down and rested his forehead again against his, still clasping his hand. Then he closed his eyes, listening to the record.

His hair had begun to dry and was spiraling as it did so; Bixby reached up and stroked a wave back from his temple, careful not to jostle him as he reached for him.

Endeavour smiled, softly. It was difficult to believe that he was the same man whom he had handled so roughly just a few hours earlier, the same man who had burst out laughing when he had thrown him onto his desk, who had arched his hips against his in a frantic fury of motion. Now, he seemed utterly still, utterly drained.

“Well. I suppose you’re right,” Bixby said, finally. “We won’t worry about all that just now. Just take a rest, Josephine.”

Endeavour quirked another faint smile at that, a smile that took the last traces of tension with it, and, within a few minutes, he was breathing deeply and evenly, fast asleep.

*********

 

The bodies were laid out in the excavated basement in two rows, covered in white sheets stained red with blood. Those were the only colors in the dim place: gray and white and red. And Max knelt amongst them, feeling oddly hollow.

There were so many.

It was almost easy to believe that he was the last man on earth, the last survivor, the place was so still.

A door opened, then, and Max looked up from his grim work. It was Fancy, his boyish face oddly set and solemn. He nodded to Max and then turned, his attention caught by the sound of the door opening again, as DCI Box sauntered into the room behind him.

“Fancy, isn’t it? From headquarters, aren’t you?” Box hailed.

“Yes,” Fancy said.  

“You haven’t seen my sergeant, have you? DS Jago?”

“No, sir,” Fancy said. “I don’t think I know him.”

“As soon as you lot from headquarters got here, he disappeared. That berk.” Box said.

He looked out over the bodies, then, and something of his usual swagger seemed to falter. “We should clear out. Leave it to uniform. There’s nothing we can do here.”

Fancy shrugged his thin shoulders. “We can be here. Someone should speak to the families, once the identification process begins.”

“Yeah. Well,” Box said, pulling something out of his pocket. “I don’t do families and identifications.”

And then the man actually lit a cigarette, as casual as you please, as if he wasn’t standing in the midst of forty-two dead men, women and children.

“Oy!” Fancy shouted.  

Box looked at him, a scowl on his darkened face, apparently befuddled as to why a mere constable might so chastise him.

Well, Max would make it plain enough.  

“Put that bloody cigarette out!” he hissed.

Box startled at that, and whipped it out at once with a wave of his hand.

It was then that Max realized that Fancy’s eyes were on him; they were eyes quite different from Morse’s—warm and brown and awfully young. But in that moment, the look they held was the same as the one that Morse had given him earlier that day, when he had surveyed the ruins and said, “Oh, Max.”

Max nodded curtly, acknowledging the gesture, and turned away, back to the body before him.

He made a mental note to go easier on the constable in the future.

Or, at least to curtail any jibes made in front of WPC Trewlove, at any rate. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of keeping up a _perfect_ record.

 

And after all, it was for the best, this show of solidarity, of loyalty.

 

Max had a feeling that the old Cowley crowd would find that they were going to need to stick together before this matter was done.

He had been sure that this, this building collapse, was no gas explosion, no accident.

And the body before him confirmed it.

This man was not covered in dust, the way Morse and so many of the others he had found, both alive and dead, were. This man was actually ensconced in concrete.

Max gently probed the man’s mouth, his nostrils with one gloved hand, and found them full of concrete, too.

He couldn’t be quite sure until he had the chance to get the man on his table, but it seemed he was not only buried in concrete.

He was buried alive—drowned—in concrete.

Max rested back for a moment, sitting on his haunches, trying to absorb the shock of the blow.

He wasn’t sure quite what it was they were dealing with.

But it was something vicious indeed.

**********

Max would have a busy day tomorrow, but somehow, he couldn’t resist a visit to Cowley General. He needed to see them, the survivors. He needed to spend some time with the living, before he closeted himself away with the dead.

He went through the wards, and one of the first that he recognized was the little girl who had been with Morse. She was sitting in a chair, her legs swinging. In the bed next to her was a young woman, her arm in a sling, speaking to Joan Thursday and Miss Wall.

“Oh, hello,” Sandra said. “Did you come to see me?”

“Hello,” Max said. “Yes, I did.”

“I found my mother,” she said.

“I’m so glad,” Max said.

The women turned to watch their exchange, the question clear on their faces.

“This is the man who found us. He’s a doctor,” Sandra said.

The young woman smiled a soft smile bright with gratitude. But then her expression faltered.

“ _Us_ , sweetheart? What do you mean by _us_?” she asked.

“Me and the man in the bookshop window. He came in to try to help me, but then we both got lost. He covered me up when the building fell. It was scary, though. It felt like we were trapped for a long time. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer.”

Joan Thursday could scarcely refrain from shaking her head—she, knowing Morse as she did, could tell from the child’s story all too well what had happened.

 

But the young woman looked confused, even troubled.

 

“That man in the bookshop window?” she asked, incredulously, as though she feared for her daughter. “You mean… like a reflection?”

Sandra shook her head, and a flicker of impatience crossed her face so that, for a brief moment, it was possible to see the teenager she would be in just a few years.

“No, mum,” she said. “You know. The man leaning against the pelican signal. On the poster.”

Her mother looked even more uncertain.  “You mean . . . Do you mean Endeavour Morse?”

“Yes. His name was Endeavour. It’s a funny sort of name, isn’t it? But I rather like it.”

 

Joan looked at Max, a crease between her eyes.

“What on earth was Morse doing there?” she asked.  

“No idea,” Max said, dryly. 

 

He turned back to the little girl. “Have you seen him since you have been here? Endeavour?”

“No,” she said. “He didn’t come. I think he went home.”

“Ah,” Max said.

 

Well, of course he did.  

Max should have known. He should have known to have kept a better eye on him. But Morse had seemed so empathetic, that Max allowed himself to believe that just once—just _once_ —Morse might meet him halfway—just once, he thought that Morse might be the slightest bit cooperative.

Although it was true, he had seemed fairly stunned and confused, and was most likely fairly heavily concussed. Perhaps he should have taken the few minutes to have walked him over personally. Perhaps he shouldn’t have trusted him to the care of himself.

He felt a small glimmer of worry flutter amidst his anger, but then it faded as quickly as it had come. No. Even in the state he had left him in, Max knew that, as troubled as he might sometimes seem, Morse was still too clever by half.

One way or another, Morse would have gotten himself back to Lake Silence, and was probably there right now, listening to records and drinking entirely too much Scotch.

And of course, Bixby, had enabled it all. Max could see it all now. “I just survived a catastrophic high-rise collapse, but I don’t want to go to hospital—I want to go home and have a drink,” Morse had said, and Bixby had said, “All right then, old man.”

Max snorted in disgust.

But how was he any better? Because of course he was going to go over there, of course it would be he who would be left the task of patching up the man—yet again.

Of course, it would be he left to tangle with the man who was undoubtedly the worst patient in all of Britain.

Just as Morse had asked him to in the first place.

 

“Oh, buggar it,” Max said.

 


	11. "Accidents Happen"

 

Max went up to the door and rang the bell.

He listened for the strain of an opera record from the front room, but the house was silent; it wasn’t clear whether or not anyone was at home.

He had just begun to worry that perhaps Morse had not made it back to Lake Silence safely after all, when the door opened, and Max was surprised to see it was Morse himself standing there, looking rather better groomed than he was accustomed to seeing him. His hair had been freshly shampooed and combed through into some semblance of unruly order, and he was wearing a pair of white summer-light cotton pajamas, with red buttons and red silk piping.

Max wasn’t sure what to make of it: he looked more as if Bixby had dressed him than he had dressed himself.

Was he so uncharacteristically tractable because he was muddled and confused from the concussion? Or had he had simply gone along with Bixby in an attempt to avoid conflict, to keep a low profile, and to dodge the possibility of being sent to hospital, where it was quite clear to Max that he belonged?

 

Morse, meanwhile, was scrutinizing him just as closely, and his expressive brow at once furrowed into a look of concern.

 

“Max,” he said. “How are you?”

 

“What a coincidence. I was wanting to ask you much the same question,” Max said.

“I’m fine,” Morse said, opening the door wider and stepping back, making a space for Max to step into the foyer. “Worried about you, is all. Would you like a Scotch?”

“Morse, I don’t think....”

“It’s no trouble,” Morse assured him. “I was just getting ready to have one myself.”

He turned then, and ushered him in, before Max had the chance to protest that that was exactly his point.

 

Morse led him back to the drawing room, where a pile of mismatched pillows and sofa cushions were piled on the floor in front of his record player. He went to a small table and poured out two glasses of Scotch.

Then, he clinked them together and said, “Your health,” before passing one of the glasses to him.

 

“Are you alright?” Morse asked. “Really?”

 

Max took the glass and drank it, in spite of himself. He really did feel quite done in from the day.

 

“I’ll mend,” Max said. “I’m not sure if I can say the same for you. I was quite sure I told you to go to the medics’ station and to go to hospital.”

Morse had the grace to look a bit sheepish; he suddenly seemed to find the contents of his glass fascinating, as if he couldn’t quite meet Max’s eyes.

“Max,” he said, softly. “You know I can’t go there. Not like this.”

“Why on earth not?”

”I’m just not up to it right now.”

Max snorted. “Isn’t that precisely when one  _ought_  to go to hospital?”

“I just . . .”  He looked up, then, and said, “When have you last eaten?”

“Morse, I . . .”

But Morse had already drained his glass, set it smartly on the table and was walking past him.

“Come on,” he said.

 

Max made a small noise of disapproval, but Morse had already sailed past him, so that he had no choice but to follow.

Morse led him to a flight of wide, polished wood stairs going down into the basement, where Max supposed the house kitchens must be. Following Morse afforded Max a look at the gash along the back of his head. It had stopped bleeding and had closed—but it would take a long time to heal without stitches.

 

“Morse, that wound really would be better off stitched up. It’s going to take the devil of a long time to heal, compounding your risk of . . .”

“I can’t,” Morse snapped. “It’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m going to go outside and lie on the ground.”

“And besides,” he said—and here is voice stiffened—“I can’t leave the house, now, even if I thought that I could.”

 

Max scowled. “Well, there’s a merry riddle. What is  _that_  supposed to mean?”

 

But Morse said nothing—Max wasn’t certain if he was hoping to avoid the question altogether, or if he simply needed to concentrate on going down the stairs. He leaned heavily on the banister, lurching along, graceless and uncoordinated, as if he were stone drunk.

Which perhaps he was. Buzzed and concussed. What a combination. Well, if Morse had no better sense than that, he would just . . 

 

But when Morse reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to wait for him, Max was struck by the solemn expression on his face.

 

“I can’t leave now,” Morse said. “I can’t leave Bix. I need to keep an eye on him.” 

 

“Oh?” Max asked. “And why do you say that?”

 

Morse regarded him uncertainly for a moment. Then, he said. “I . . . I think he’s gone a bit mad. Because God made a building fall on me.” He walked off, then, towards a large, white refrigerator and opened the door, considering its contents.

 

Max said nothing, but only furrowed his brow in concern. That sounded absolutely . . .

 

“Morse,” he said, as calmly and rationally as he could. “I hardly think that  _God_  made a building fall on you.”

Morse looked up sharply at that, his eyes bright in the white light emanating from inside the fridge.

“Of course I don’t believe any such thing,” he said, hotly. “It’s what  _Bixby_  thinks. He hates that man. Clive Burkitt. From the housing and planning department. And now he’s holed up in his study, plotting against him.”

 

Max paused. Did Bixby know of something untoward in the department? Something that might have ended in silencing a whistleblower in a bath of concrete?

 

“Why is that?” Max asked. “Why does he ‘hate Burkitt?’”

”Bixby submitted some bid for a new development, to Oxford Housing and Planning, but it got rejected. Too pricey, they said. So he knew they were keen to do things on the cheap. But, at the time, he just took it for the way things were. Now he feels he should have called them out on it, looked into it further. He thinks that fact that I happened to be there, in one of their collapsed buildings is . . . I don’t know .... some sort of judgment on him.”

 

Max mulled this over. Bixby never struck him as particularly religious, let alone superstitious, but one never could tell, one supposed. 

 

“So,” Morse said, swooping a copper pan down from off a hook. “That’s why I have to figure out what he’s doing. He doesn’t understand these people, how they work, how they operate.”

He smiled then, a little sadly, and said, “When I first met him, he always seemed to be tottering on the brink of disaster. There was this man, Harry Rose, who kept at him, trying to have his ear. I warned Bix to steer clear of him altogether, that Thursday was looking into Rose’s dealings, but he just went on as blithely as you please. ‘I have nothing to do with that, old man.’”

 

Morse shook his head, as if unable to believe Bixby’s past naivety, and cracked some eggs into the pan. It seemed as if he was taking care with his aim, as if he had to concentrate to be sure he got the egg into the pan rather than dumping it in a mess onto the stovetop.

“Morse,” Max said. “You really shouldn’t be doing this. I’d sooner you . . . “

But Morse cut him off and looked at him a little haughtily. “Well. Not everyone can make a seed cake from scratch, but I can at least make eggs on toast. Give me some credit.”

He cast him a prickly look that Max couldn’t quite decipher, and then went about his clumsy business.

 

It wasn’t long before Morse settled him at a table in the corner—it was a cozy nook with herbs in terra cotta pots on the high window sill. And Max had to admit, the scent of something bitter and fragrant and earthy was somewhat of a comfort, after all of the assaults waged on his senses throughout the day.

 

Morse put the plate before him. “Here,” he said. “You ought to eat something. No offense, but you look like hell.”

 

 Then he slid into the chair across from him as if to make certain Max followed his instructions.

 

Max shrugged and jabbed at the eggs with his fork. Morse was right—the eggs and toast and tea were simple and warm and homey—it wasn’t until he was sitting there, Morse leaning on the table across from him, that he could allow himself to put some distance between himself and the events of the day. From the bodies beneath the blood-stained sheets. From the man who had been drowned alive in concrete.

 

“What’s happened?” Morse asked, at once.

Max looked at him, incredulously. “I suppose you of all people would know, Morse. Considering you were in the middle of it all. Literally.”

“No,” Morse said. “It’s something else. Something happened. Something that upset you.”

“I’ve just done preliminaries on more people than I typically see in the course of three months . . .”

“No,” Morse said. “You know something. Tell me.”

 

Max put his fork down. Confound the fellow. How could a man who barely had the coordination to prepare this simple tea seem to read him so easily? He, who had always prided himself on keeping his face impassive, his emotions in check?

 

“I hardly think you should be concerning yourself with the case right now, Morse.”

“Max. Tell me. I need to know what’s happening. Please. I need to know the truth. It’s more dangerous, circumventing these people, if you’re in the dark. You know that.”

 

Max said nothing.

 

“I fell asleep,” Morse said, quietly. “When I was listening to records. And when I woke up, Bixby had left. He’s in his study. Planning who knows what.”

“Why is it down to you to . . . “  Max began.

“I told you, Max. I’m the only one who knows these people. How they work. Bixby plays by the rules. They don’t. He doesn’t see it. Not really. ‘Fair and square.’ It’s like a mantra with him. Do you think the people responsible for what happened today care about what’s ‘fair and square?’ No. If you cross them, they’ll take everything. Everything you hold dear.”

“So what’s your solution?” Max asked.

“You don’t let them see you coming. You strike before they know what hit them. You compile the evidence and pin the charges so tight, even they can’t buy their way out of them.”

 

Mad closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, considering his answer.

 

“You know it’s true, Max,” Morse said. “You would do better to let me help you.”

Max looked up. “Help  _me_?” he said.

Morse nodded. “If you know something about this, and they know that you do, then you're in danger, too.”

“That’s not your concern, Morse. I . . . “

“Not my  _concern_?” Morse cried.

 

His eyes were scrutinizing him, looking surprisingly determined, despite the trouble he seemed to have in focusing.

“Are we  _really_ friends, Max?” he asked. “Or have you just been humoring me, all of this time?”

 

Max was stuck by that. He was well accustomed to Morse’s bluntness.

He simply wasn’t used to being the target of it.

 

“Because it’s difficult to tell with you,” he continued. “When we first met, even back then, you didn’t seem to think much of me.”

“Well. I didn’t think you were  _entirely_  a fool,’” Max said.

 

Max couldn’t help but huff a laugh at the memory, but Morse’s face remained solemn.

 

“No. You did. You did think I was a fool. But later, I thought that you had come to . . .” he stopped, then, mid-sentence, and shouted, “I’m a good detective!”

“Morse, I didn’t say that you . . . “

“I am,” Morse insisted. “Better than Box. Better than Jago, that’s for damn sure.”

Morse rubbed his forehead, then, looking as if he was running out of steam.

“Whatever’s coming,” he said, “I just think . . . we few from the old days . . . we are going to have to trust one another. Because you can be sure, if it’s the old brotherhood, they will be working as one will.” 

 

Max sighed. Only Morse, even in such a state, dazed and dressed in a pair of pajamas, could still manage to argue him into a corner. Because wasn’t that just what Max had thought himself, as he knelt by the body of a man drowned in concrete? That the city police, the old band from Cowley, were the only ones he could trust with his suspicions?

“There was a body,” Max began . . . . “But the man didn’t die in the collapse of Cranmer House."

 

*****************

 

Endeavour was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. The breeze blew in the open window, stirring the curtain gently, and the world was silent and dark, but somehow, his mind couldn’t match it.

It didn’t help, watching the way Bixby slept so peacefully. It was the sleep of the self-satisfied, and Endeavour couldn’t help but worry what plans he had hatched to make him look so pleased with himself.

But then, he so often looked that way: it was why he had never bothered to investigate Bixby’s past, even though Bix had all but told him where to look.

There was no need. Bixby always slept so soundly—like everything he did, he did it well. He slept like a man with a clear conscience, with a trace of that familiar, bemused smile forever playing around the corners of his lips.

 

As soon as it was light, Endeavour padded down the stairs and stole a glance up at the the clock. The optician’s office wouldn’t be open to eight. He willed the minute hand of the clock to sweep in circles round its face, like an apple swirling silently in space.

 

*********

Thursday always said that real police work meant leg work.

But it was amazing how many things one could get done with a telephone and a telephone book.

 

“Dinkley’s Opticians,” a cheerful voice said.

“Hello,” Endeavour said. “Detective Constable Morse, Thames Valley. We have recovered a pair of spectacles—wire rimmed, fairly strong prescription— belonging to a patient with the initials HB. Male, in his 40s or 50s. He might have missed his last few appointments. I was wondering if you might check your records to see if any of your patients match that description?”

“Of course. One moment, constable,” the receptionist said.

“Thank you,” Endeavour said.

He heard the opening of a file door, a rummage of papers, and, then, after a few minutes, the young woman came back onto the line.

“Yes,” she said. “We have a patient named Hollis Binks. Age 48. And he’s missed two appointments.”

“Is his place of employment listed in his file?” Endeavour asked.

“Yes, He works for the Oxford Housing and Planning department. He’s a borough surveyor.”  
 

Endeavour’s heart skipped.

“Thank you,” he said.

 

He thumbed through the blue pages at the front of the phone book, through the section that provided government phone listings.

“Oxford Housing and Planning,” an efficient voice said.

“Hello,” Endeavour said. “Detective Constable Morse, Thames Valley. I’m calling for information about a Hollis Binks. He was a borough surveyor there, I believe.”

“Oh yes, he was,” the woman said, sounding more personable. “What is it you would like to know?“

“Just what his duties involved,” Endeavour said. “When he left. Why.”

“Well, he worked as a surveyor and buildings inspector for the department. For twelve years, it was. He left about a year ago. Tendered his resignation and that was that. I think he found another position up in the northeast. He wasn’t much for the city. He was a keen rambler,” she said.

 “Oh,” Endeavour said. “Well. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” the woman said. “Goodbye now.”

 

Endeavour hung up the receiver, but kept his hand on it, lost in thought. There was someone else who was a keen rambler. Someone who seemed to love nothing better than to chat.

 

“Professor Burrowes?” Endeavour said. “Detective Constable Morse, Thames Valley.”

“Morse,” he said, as if they were old friends.  “Shocking about Cramner House, isn’t it? Those poor people.”

“Hmmm,” Morse said.

“So. This is about Mr. Page, is it?”

“Possibly,” Endeavour said, although Burrowes had been just as close to the truth with his opening statement. But there was no need for him to know that.

“I wanted to ask you about a Hollis Binks. Did you know him?” Endeavour asked.

“Hollis? Yes, he was a student of mine. And a fellow member of the Happy Wanderers Walking Club. We did the Santiago de Compostela together. A fine geologist,” Professor Burrowes said.

“Did you ever go walking with him in the Gower Peninsula? Do you know if he ever went there?”

“I never went with him there,  _personally_ , no, but I would imagine he visited the place at one time or another.”

“And why is that? Would that be a popular place for walkers?” Endeavour asked.

“For everyone.... Holiday-makers, mmmm,” the professor said. 

“When was the last time you saw him? Binks?” Endeavour asked.

“Oh, not for years. He wrote to me, though, about a year ago.”

“A year ago?” Endeavour asked.

 

That would be right about when, according to Max, the man had disappeared.

 

“About Faringdon sponge gravel.”

“What’s that?” Endeavour asked.

“It’s part of the Greensand, formed in the Crustaceous.”

“And what did he want to know?”

“If it was found anywhere other than Wicklesham. It extends to Lower Coxwell and to Fernham, but Wicklesham is the only place where it’s quarried. For aggregate, in the main. Lovely walking there, if you are ever out that way.”

”Hmmmm,” Endeavour said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, young man. Call anytime.”

 

Endeavour managed to hang up the phone before he was hit with a barrage of coughing. It was as if his lungs had been lined with sharp concrete dust. When he managed to swallow and breathe properly again, the room was spinning like a wheel within a wheel.

He held onto the edge of his desk and waited for the sensation to pass before picking up the phone and dialing again.

 

“Oxford Housing and Planning,” the efficient voice said again.

“Hello. Detective Constable Morse. Sorry to trouble you again. But I had a few more questions.”

“Alright,” the woman said. Then there was a pause.  “Is this . . . This is Endeavour Morse, isn’t it?”

Morse frowned. “Yes.”

”Are you working for the police, then? I told my daughter I heard that you were, but she didn’t believe it. She met you once. At a book signing. Perhaps you remember her? About 5’5”, she is, blonde hair? Her name is Judith.”

”I’m not sure,” Endeavour said. “But then, I can’t even remember where I put a set of car keys.”

The woman laughed merrily at that, as if he was making a joke, when, really, he had been speaking in earnest.

”Me neither, my dear,” she said, “So. What is it you wanted to ask me?”

“I was wondering about any quarries that the department might be contracted with? Any near Wicklseham, perhaps?”

“McGyffin Construction is who we usually work with, yes. Owned by George McGyffin. His place out at Wicklesham is called Four Winds Aggregate.

“It’s a subsidiary, then? Four Winds Aggregate?”

“Oh yes. McGyffin Construction is composed of many smaller firms. They’ve also got another yard out on the Gower Coast. Sea-dredging, I believe.”

 

Why was Hollis Binks asking about quarries in Wiklesham and then going out to the Gower Coast?

Unless he thought they were taking sand from there, from one place to the other?

It would be cheap, wouldn’t it, for McGyffin to take sand right from his sea-dredging operation?

Even though it would be mixed with salt. Even though salt corroded metal.

 

“Thank you so much for your help,” Endeavour said.

“Good bye, now,” the woman said. “My daughter will be so surprised that I talked to you.” 

“Please tell her I said hello,” Endeavour said uncertainly, and hung up the receiver.

 

Well, not everything could be done by telephone. He would just have to summon the courage and go there. He would just have to see for himself. 

 

Wicklesham was too far away to get to by bike, but he still felt too off-balance to try to drive, even in an emergency like this. He’d have to take a cab.

******

Endeavour waited along the edge of the main road between their house and Tony’s property and hailed the cab when he saw it approach. As soon as it rolled to a stop, he slid into the backseat. It was a relief to sit down. He felt a bit of an odd shiver, as if he was too hot and too cold both at the same time.

“Wicklesham?” the driver said. “That will be a hell of a fare, matey.”

Endeavour reached between the seats and handed him a wad of bills. He must have seemed like some vagabond, asking to be picked up along the road, and doubtless the cabbie had feared he wasn’t good for the fare.

The driver seemed satisfied enough, and, luckily, he wasn’t one of those types who insisted on a lot of small talk. Endeavour needed the time on the ride over to think, to clear his head.

 

When they got within a mile or so of the place, Endeavour said, “You can let me off here.”

The cabbie looked at him in the rear-view mirror, sharply. “This is the middle of nowhere.”

“I know,” Endeavour said.

 

That was the point. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going, or where he had been.

************** 

As soon as Endeavour saw the sign, his heart gave a jolt. “Four Winds Aggragate.” Anemoi. The four wind gods. 

 

The man who owned this yard also owned a place on the Gower Coast, where Hollis Binks had gone in search of answers.

And where Osbert Page had gone in search of Hollis Binks.

 

He came along the winding dirt path to the quarry, where a large man with a heavy gray beard was just getting out of a truck.  

“George McGyffin?” Endeavour asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Detective Constable Morse, Thames Valley. You’ve a works along the Gower, I understand. Sea dredging.”

“What of it?”

“Did Hollis Binks ever go there?” Endeavour asked.

“Who?”

“Hollis Binks. He was a borough surveyor.”

“No.”

 

Endeavour blinked. How could McGyffin be so certain, if he didn’t even know who Hollis Binks was?

 

“Really? That’s a surprise. Considering he had an interest in your company, Four Winds Aggragate. You supplied the concrete for the construction of Cranmer House, didn’t you?”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Detective Constable Morse.”

“Well, listen, Detective Constable Morse,” McGyffin said. “Let me tell you something. Construction site’s no place for small boys with soft hands and clean shirts. It’s dirty work. Dangerous work.”

The large man paused and glowered down at him before adding, “Man’s work.”

 

Endeavour wasn’t much impressed by all the posturing. He had heard a similar definition of what made a man often enough before, from his father.

He was only surprised McGyffin didn’t just come out and call him a fairy.

 

McGyffin stepped closer, in what Endeavour was sure was meant to be a gesture of intimidation.

”Accidents happen.”

Endeavour pulled himself up to his full height. “That sounds like a threat,” he said.

 “Advice, son.” He looked at him pointedly. “You don’t need another Blenheim Vale, do you?”

 

So. It was them. The Masons. It was a declaration of open hostilities, then.

And meanwhile, Bix was making his phone calls, and Max was sending off samples to forensics, both of them delving into things that a "certain brotherhood" wanted to keep a tight lid on.

What would Bixby do when the people he called asked to meet with him to “talk things over?” What would Max do when he got the results of his tests? 

 

It was clear, after all, from the feel of the mealy and muddy earth beneath his feet, what the results of those tests would be. 

 

Whoever had killed Osbert Page had once been right here, standing in this soil. 

 

“So don’t you come here asking about Hollis Binks! Go home!” McGyffin shouted.

Endeavour backed away the way one might back away from an angry dog. Slowly. Cautiously.

But careful to show no fear.

 ******

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, but the circle of the sun was gliding higher into the relentless sky. He felt like hell. He couldn’t think and he had to think. The windmills were spinning, and they were a danger to birds, windmills. Endeavour had read that somewhere—the fragile creatures often got hit by the churning blades and burst into feathers and bone.

And let me be to you as a circling bird, but Bixby was a peacock in a tiger’s cage. A swagger of feathers amidst the slash of teeth. He wouldn’t know it was to be a bloodbath until it was too late.

 

Endeavour felt dizzy at the thought of it and vomited in the bushes. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t afraid of these people. He knew what they were.

 

If only he could think. But the sun was so bright, so bright, that he couldn’t see properly. Everthing was lit up as if he was on the surface of the sun, and he was hot and cold at the same time.

 

He thought it was a mirage at first, but it was solid and real—a red call box. He called the operator to ask for a cab.

“We aren’t allowed to recommend businesses, dear. You have to ask for a specific company," the operator said. 

Endeavour couldn’t think of one off-hand, and he slurred and stammered a combination of names he vaguely remembered. City Cab? Eagle? 

He wasn’t sure if he got one right or if the woman had simply taken pity on him, but there was, finally, a click and a ring.

 

******

As soon as the cab pulled up in front of the house, Endeavour gave the driver all the money he had left in his bag. He wasn’t sure how much it was, but the man looked delighted. It must have been enough, then.

 

Before he could even get to the door, it flew open. Bixby was there, his usually tanned and relaxed face a darkened storm cloud. He looked angry, he didn’t look like himself, he looked all wrong, all wrong.

 

Oh. His shoes. They were covered in mud. Was that it? Was that what Bix was fuming about?

 

Endeavour swung one leg up and then the other, pulling the shoes off and casting them off onto the lawn, one after the other, so that he would not track dirt into the house.

 

“Where the hell were you?” Bix asked.

 

He didn’t want Bixby to look at him like that. And let me be to you as a circling bird and birds get hit by windmills and burst into feathers and Joss was a peacock in a tiger’s cage and Endeavour would never tell him where he had been.

He was confident that Bixby would never find the place on his own. He would never think to follow the snaking trail that Endeavour knew all too well. Bix and his fair and square. Bix from a land where insects sparkled in the woods and phosphorescent sea life sparkled in the sand and there is no real magic. But there is. Bix and his happy endings.

 

”Well?” Bixby asked. 

“I don’t know,” Endeavour said.

Bixby crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. “I want the truth, Endeavour.”

"I can’t give you the truth,” Endeavour said. 

Bixby looked to the heavens and gave a short cry of impatience. 

 

Endeavour could almost hear it: it was just like that voice that had sounded in his ears as he had tried to escape from Maplewick Hall, the one that had sounded oddly like Thursday’s.

_“What have you given him? What have you given him?”_

 

 

Endeavour could not give him much, the man who had everything he wanted—and which of us can say that, present company excluded?

He could not give him the truth. But he could give him this.

Because something has to be lovely.

 

There had to be a way to connect the dots, to prove with hard and fast evidence what he knew in his gut to be true. If only he could sit for a while and think. If only the room would stop spinning on its axis, running rings around the moon.

 

“Deavour?”

 

Endeavour made his way past Bixby, up the stairs to their room, and then collapsed into the window seat.

And he had made it.

And he would not move from this spot until he had a plan.

 

But even there Bixby pursued him, his steps echoing behind his. And then Bix sank himself onto the edge of the seat, where Endeavour had sprawled himself, all arms and legs that weren’t quite his.

“Endeavour,” Bix said, scanning his face, looking uncertain.  “Do you understand me? I want to know where you were. Look at you. What have you been  _up_  to?”

 

And Endeavour’s eyes roved over the smooth familiar face, the familiar dark eyes that were unfamiliar, too, stern and sharp, and he knew that soon Bix might give up on him, but it was a risk he would have to take.

 

“Keeping you out of trouble, in the main,” Endeavour said.

 

And then he turned to rest his burning forehead on one of the cool glass panes surrounding the window seat.


	12. "For those who keep their oaths, brother, all things are possible"

  

“Reginald. So glad you could join us,” ACC Bottoms said, leaning back in his chair and taking a drag on his cigarette. “You know Councilor Burkitt?”

“No. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Reginald said.

 

Reginald had just sat down, and already he was regretting his decision to accept the ACC’s invitation to lunch. Could it be that he was so desperate, so terribly lonely, that he had allowed himself to become embroiled with men such as these, just for the promise of a round of Scotch and an hour of conversation?

Because from the silky way in which ACC Bottoms spoke, it was clear that the man wanted something. But the question was: what in heaven's name could it be? Reginald was retired now, after all.

Furthermore, if this was meant to be a simple catch-up, a chance for two old officers to reminisce, why on earth should the councilor for housing and planning be in attendance, sitting on the edge of his chair?

He felt it, a sense of foreboding: it could only be something concerning the collapse of Cranmer House. 

 Reginald had taken charge that day, in the absence of any senior leadership on site—he had taken the liberty of speaking to the news crews, even, who had gathered outside the police barricades. People were stunned, people were frightened, people wanted reassurance, after all. 

Could it be that they thought he had seen or heard something he shouldn’t, in all of the hubbub?

 

Burkitt was nodding solemnly, regarding him. “Reginald,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well. Don’t stand on ceremony,” Reginald said.

 

Since you already feel free to address me by my Christian name, he was tempted to add.   

 

ACC Bottoms cleared his throat. “One of your former colleagues from Cowley has been concerning himself unduly with matters of a sensitive nature. Matters that senior officers at division feel are best left to London,” he said. 

"There are few more senior than the assistant chief constable, I would have thought," Reginald said. 

 

It was all double talk, of course. The shifting of responsibility to faceless unknowns, the jargon that meant nothing.  He had seen it all before. He had _done_ it all before. And to what end? Keeping the peace.

A fragile sort of peace it was, built on lies.

 

“These matters have potential ramifications for some departments of local government,” Burkitt continued. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. 

“Morse, is it?” he said. “His enthusiasm is commendable, but misplaced."

Reginald kept his face impassive. That it should be Morse, of all people, who had brought him here, that it should be happening now exactly as it had happened before, felt prophetic somehow. As if the powers that be were putting him to some sort of test.

 

“I’m retired, sir. I don’t see what influence I can bear upon him,” Reginald said, stiffly.

“Now, Reginald. I’m sure you underestimate yourself. All the old Cowley firm have always looked to you for guidance. It’s a testimony to your leadership, how you all have stayed in touch over the years. He just popped by with a hamper for you the other day, didn’t he? Morse? Touching, really.”

 

Again, Reginald had to repress a flinch. How would they know that? Was his house being watched, his activities monitored, _all_ of their activities monitored? Which of them would be next to forget a scarf at a pub or at a theater and have it found next to a corpse?

“Not to mention. . . . ,” Burkitt said. “It’s in all the papers, isn't it? What an influence you have been to him in writing his new book?  I’m sure Morse would listen to what you have to say.”  

 

If he were to feed Morse something along the lines of the balderdash they were feeding _him_ , Reginald was equally sure that he wouldn’t.

 

“Just something to think about. It’s the opinion, you know, at division, that perhaps your retirement was premature … perhaps some of the decisions made during the merger a bit hasty. You might have some long days ahead. I . . . ." And here ACC Bottoms cast his eyes downward, and added softly. "I heard about your wife.”

And this was even more difficult, keeping his expression blank, while the man’s words went like a knife straight into his gut. That he would bring Helena into any of this seemed profane, indecent. Surely a man’s dying wife should be something to be kept off their corrupt little bargaining table.

Reginald got up stiffly.

“Excuse me, sir, I have a previous appointment elsewhere,” he said.

 

He left the room with as much dignity and grace as possible, but the truth was, he felt as if he was on the verge of collapse, for want of air.

He was just heading down the hall when a hand fell on his shoulder, the fingers curling around it like a spider.

 

“I have a friend. At the Royal Masonic,” Burkitt said, murmuring almost, in his ear. “Some new experimental cancer treatments are being looked at, out of America. A shortlist of patients is being drawn up . . . and, well, if you change your mind. What are friends for?”

“We are not friends, nor, I am happy to say, are we ever likely to be. Good day, councilor,” Reginald said.

And then he kept walking.

 *********

Reginald stepped out onto the sidewalk; it was a muggy day that carried the promise of a heavy afternoon rain, but still, after the suffocating closeness of the heavy, dark room, the air felt light; it was as if he could breathe again.

All the temptations had been there, by God, had they been there—a promise of help for Helena, a promise of help for himself, offering him a way to fill the long and lonely hours he would most assuredly be facing all too soon. These were the only two hopes he had left in the bleak and barren winter of his life—that Helena, by some miracle, might be spared, that she might not leave him entirely alone and without family, or that, barring that, someone, somewhere might decide that his life was not over after all; that he was still needed somehow.

It was difficult to turn away from those flickering candles, held out to him in that claustrophobic room of dark wood and heavy leather furniture—two small flickers of hope in a darkening world, but he had lived long enough, thank God, to know that such so-called gifts were claimed at too high a price.

 

 “ _A_ _shortlist_ _of_ _patients_ _is_ _being_ _drawn_ _up_ _as_ _we_ _speak_."

In Reginald's memory the _s_ sounds in that sentence seemed as the hiss of a snake, a hiss of temptation emerging from the shadowed stillness, out of clouds of cigarette smoke. He knew all too well he had just escaped by a hair's breadth. 

 **********

“Are you home, Puli?” Helena called, her voice weak. She spent much of her time sleeping now, and when she did speak, her voice was strangely breathless, as if she was already speaking to him from some other world.

He felt as if he could barely look at her, a figure once so active, flitting about to fill the hours, now tired of the game, now heavy and still. What could he say?

Someone offered me the chance to save you. And I said no.

“Yes. I’m home,” he said.

Because it was true. He was home. He had returned to her, still himself at least.  

 

Just then, the phone began to ring.

Reginald frowned. 

The phone seldom rang these days. Were those bastards still pursuing him, even here?

 

"Bright,” Reginald said, pickling up the receiver.

“Hello,” a smooth voice said. “Peter Kennisworth, Channel 8 News.”

“Yes?" Reginald said, even more uncertainly. 

“We’ve had a few phone calls in, about the interviews with you that we aired during the collapse at Cranmer House. We took the liberty of running a market study, and your clips did well across all demographics. Older people respect your experience and service to Oxford, parents of young children seem to recognize you from your PELICON spots, seem to feel you are a reassuring presence, you are known over at the colleges from the Oxford Mail interviews with Endeavour Morse . . . .”

“ _Morse_?” Reginald asked, wonderingly.  

Morse had spoken of him in the papers? This was the second man who had said such a thing in the space of an hour, but Reginald didn’t know a thing about it. He had bought Morse’s first book, but he couldn’t make head nor tails of the thing. He had given up reading much about his poetry career ever since.

“Yes. He speaks quite highly of you. Sounds like you’ve had quite the influence.”

Bright blinked quickly, his eyes stinging a bit at the words.

 

He had failed Morse once. If he had fallen low enough to have taken their little deal and then received this call, it would have made an end to him, he knew, damaged  his soul irrevocably, to the point that he could never come home to Helena again.  

“Made your info spot a bit of a catchphrase over at the colleges, it seems. You know. “ _If_ _the_ _pelican_ _can...._ ,’" the man laughed.

“So. . . . what is this call about, exactly?”

“We’d like to offer you a spot on the news desk. For the six o’clock broadcast. Interested, at all? We can shoot a screen test, Tuesday next, if you are.”

Reginald paused, flabbergasted.

The PELICON spot had been a lark; he had never considered a career in broadcasting.

“I’d like the chance to think about it. It  .. . . it all depends on home, you see,” he said at last.

“So much does. Just call for me, down at the station, anytime, if you’d like to come down. Bye now.”

“Goodbye.”

 

Slowly, Reginald hung up the phone.

Hell of a thing. Had always been a private man, but the idea _did_ pique his interest.

Morse had made a similar career transition, one supposed, from police work to writing. So it wasn’t as if the thing couldn’t be done.

 

The last time he had seen Morse had been in the midst of the chaos; Reginald had noticed him from across the piles of debris at the site, waiting at the medic’s station with a little girl. Reginald had felt a surge of relief, to see him there, standing on his own two feet. 

He was supposed to go to Cowley General in the morning for Helena’s test results: not that he needed to hear them—already he could discern what they must be. 

Perhaps, if Morse was still there, with the others pulled from the wreckage, he would stop and pay him a visit. Bring him a bit of that seed cake. See what he thought of the idea.

Of that other matter, he’d tell him nothing.

That, he would handle alone.

Reginald had promised himself years ago never to fall into such a trap—a trap of preserving the status quo at all costs—ever again.

Not on his watch.

 

*********

 

It had gone a little against the grain, not pushing Morse further about going to hospital, but, above all, Max always considered that first oath that he had taken in becoming a doctor: first do no harm.

 

For all of Morse’s prickly pride, it was clear that he was terrified of the place.

Nor did it take too huge of a leap of the imagination to understand why: anxiety generally had to do with a fear of the loss of control—and, although it certainly wasn’t prison, a hospital was another sort of institution, wasn’t it? One with its own fairly ironclad set of rules and regulations? 

Once signed in, a patient puts his or her life into its hands. An exchange that most people are willing to make for the promise of the help they might receive there, but that Morse, with his history, was not.

 

Max wondered if some of his fear had to do with Bixby; he remembered last summer, when he had gone to see Morse at the Thursdays’, when Bixby had taken him out into the hall, ready to pay him off if he would give the all-clear, so that he could hustle Morse back to France, rather than risk returning him to hospital in his post hallucinogenic-induced state. 

Morse had been fairly dazed at the time, but he most likely could not help but pick up on Bixby’s sense of urgency, that restless energy the man exuded, pacing about the small rowhouse like a peacock without enough room to spread its feathers.

 

So, bearing that in mind, Max felt the kinder course would be to leave Morse at home, where one would hope he might actually rest, give his body the chance to heal. Sending his already considerable anxiety levels through the roof could not be conducive to his recovery.

Nevertheless, Max felt it would ease his sense of concern to make a quick stop by the house on Lake Silence to check on how the fellow was doing.

And, fair was fair—Morse had dropped by his house unannounced enough times, that much was certain.  

 

As soon as Max stepped out of his Morris and closed the door behind him, he noticed something odd, something out of place, lying tossed about on the impeccable green lawn of the stately house. It was a pair of shoes cast off outside, into the grass, a pair Max recognized to be Morse’s.

Max walked over to where the shoes lay; they looked to be encrusted with the same sort of dirt as had been found around the body of Osbert Page, the head librarian at the Bodleian.  

Max picked up one of the shoes and found that the dirt was, indeed, the same color, texture and consistency.

What the hell? 

Morse had assured him he was going to stay indoors. Was he instead chasing the trail of .... a murderer?   

 

Max let the shoe drop where he had found it, went up the steps and rang the bell. Within a minute, Bixby was there, his tie unstrung about his collar, looking strangely relieved to see him.

“Oh, thank God,” he said.

 

Well. That was certainly unexpected.

 

“I don’t know how this happened,” Bixby said. “It’s like some sort of . . ..” he threw up his hands as if unable to say what, exactly, it was. It was certainly the most ruffled he had ever seen the man.

“What’s happened?” Max asked.

“He disappeared, off somewhere. Endeavour. And when he came back .  . . I don’t know . . . something is just really wrong with him.”

”Where is it that he went?” Max asked, at once.

“I don’t know. He refuses to tell me. He says it’s ‘ _police_ _business_ ,’” Bixby said, allowing a veneer of sarcasm to drip over the last words. 

 

“Police business?” Max asked.

That confirmed it. Confound the man.

 

“Other than that, he won’t talk to me at all, except to ask me if I’ll bring his record player up to him,” Bixby said. Then he laughed, and his laugh was a bit wild. “But to hell with that. If he has that thing up there, I’ll never pry him from that room. If he wants to stay in the house, fine, but he can’t just hole up in one room like I’m holding him goddamned hostage. It’s too much, old man.”

 

Max wasn’t sure what to think.

 

“You can go on, go upstairs,” Bixby said, waving his hand toward the wide stair.  “Maybe he’ll talk to you. I can tell you one thing, though. I’ll kill them all for this.”

 

Max raised his eyebrows. He suspected that there might be any number of people, after the disaster at Cranmer House, who might express similar sentiments. That Bixby might need to get into the queue. It was best for both his sake and Morse’s if Max simply unheard those words.

 

But Bixby misread the impassiveness on Max’s face as disbelief.

“Oh, I will. The whole lot of them.”

“That might be a matter better left to the police,” Max said pointedly.

“The _police_ ,” Bixby said dismissively. “They won’t get to the bottom of this barrel of stinking, slippery fish. Endeavour was right all along, old man. He always knew not to place his faith in the system.”

“That must be an oversimplification, surely,” Max said, trying to inject some rationality in the conversation. “Morse can’t think that, or else he wouldn’t be working for them, would he?” 

“Not anymore,” Bixby said. “Not if I can help it. I don’t even know how it’s gone _this_ far—when his bag was stolen last summer, he wasn’t even going to pursue the matter. _I_ was the one who insisted he at least file a report, stand up for himself a bit.  And then, it was one inquiry here, another consult there, and ... next thing I knew, he was....”

Bixby paused, frowning thoughtfully. “I thought it would be _good_ for him, you see. Give him some confidence back. The first few years that I knew him, he . . . .”

Bixby shrugged and slowly shook his head, as if uncertain how to complete the sentence.

But it was no matter; Max knew just what he meant. The words conjured a flash of the first time Max had seen Morse after Blenheim Vale, when Max had been called to the house on Lake Silence in the wake of Henry Winter’s suicide—a flash of a Morse that Max hadn’t recognized, sitting amidst a gathering of beautiful, stunned guests, looking pale and lost and disconsolate.

By the time Morse returned to Oxford to help the CID with that barrage of messages on red writing paper, during the Ames and Reece case, Morse had seemed to have some of that sharpness back, that twist of stubbornness in his chin, that steady light in the searching blue eyes.

 

“But we’re done with all that now,” Bixby said. “We’re finished with it. I’m sorry I ever encouraged it. If he didn’t want to press for his bag back, who was I to push him?”

 

Max hummed noncommittally. One wondered if Morse agreed, or this was simply Bixby talking. If Morse had just been referring to his mysterious little jaunt as “police business,” he rather suspected it was the latter.

 

But he found he could hardly blame the man for wishing Morse might once again turn his back on his onetime career as a detective.

The role of the lover, Max supposed, was not so different from that of a doctor.

First, do no harm.

*****

Morse was sitting in the window seat of the summer green bedroom, hunched against the glass panes, cradling a tumbler of Scotch, much as he had been when Max had come up here after the tragedy at the Moonlight Rooms last winter.

He looked up as soon as Max came in through the doorway.

“Hello, Max,”  he said.

From those three syllables alone, Max could tell something was off. His voice was low and thick, his eyes glittering oddly in the late afternoon light.

“Morse.”

 

Morse said nothing.

 

“I noticed your shoes outside. They are awful muddy, Morse. Care to tell me where you’ve been?” Max asked.

“No,” Morse said, simply, slouching more heavily against the window. 

 

In a moment, Morse sat up.  

 

“Actually, would you help me?” he asked.

 

Max paused. Could it be this easy?

 

“Of course,” Max said. “Is there something you want to tell me? Something you want to ask?”

“Yes,” Morse said. “What I really need is my record player. That’s what I used to do, to puzzle out the answers. I’d put on a record and spread all the evidence across the floor of my bedsit. And then I’d think over the case. Would you bring it up here to me? It’s in the drawing room, right downstairs. First room on the right as you come in.

 

Bixby had made his feelings on that request abundantly clear. And Max had no wish to insert himself between them.

 

“I’m not sure if I can do that,” Max said.

 

Morse ran his eyes over him, appraisingly.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you can, Max. It’s not very heavy.”  

Max huffed with impatience. “It’s not that I’m _incapable_ of carrying the thing, Morse. It’s rather that I’ve been instructed not to. Bixby seems to think it’s the only leverage he has in getting you out of this room.”  

“I see,” Morse said, frostily.

He fell silent again, as if mulling this over.

“Well,” he said at last. “If I get the answer, I will. I’ll have to.”

“Or you could simply tell me your suspicions. It doesn’t necessarily have to be you who acts upon them. You don’t have to do _everything_ yourself, you know,” Max said.

“I do. I _do_ have to handle it by myself. I’m the only one who .... I’m the only one who has the sense to be afraid of them,” Morse said.

 

Max blinked.

 

“I tell myself that I’m not. But, do you know?  I am. There. Do you think I’m awfully yellow?” Morse asked.

 

Max frowned. Had someone frightened him? _Threatened_ him? 

 

“But it’s all right,” Morse said, philosophically. “It just means I don’t underestimate them. I know all too well to what depths they’ll go.” He nodded sagely. “Know thine enemy.”

Morse scowled and looked out the window.

“The trouble is,” he said. “I just can’t seem to think through this. I keep losing the thread of it all. If I had my record player, I know I could . . .”

He looked up again, sharply. “Why is he standing in my way? Bix? It’s he who I am trying to help. You and Bix and even Thursday—you . . . you just don’t _know_ what I know.”  

“Morse, I really think....” Max began.

But Morse had suddenly leapt from the seat.

“I’ll have to get it myself, then. I’ll have to do everything myself.” And then he was wheeling off, weaving erratically as he went, heading out the door.

Max followed him to the top of the stairs. Bixby was there, standing at the bottom, arms folded, looking up, grimly satisfied. It was odd, seeing them at cross purposes with one another.

Their respective careers, Max realized— Bixby’s as a businessman and investor, and Morse’s as a consultant at Castle Gate— had led them to the same dark wood, to the same dragon, and each was determined to slay the thing on his own, in order to spare the the other.

A match of two such headstrong people could only end in combustion at some point or another, Max supposed. Each seemed to consider himself in charge of the situation, although it was clear to Max that neither of them were.

 

 “Coming downstairs, then?” Bixby called.

“Yes,” Morse said. “And do you know what? You aren’t a cracker at all.  No surprises. Pull the ends and there’s nothing. _I’m_ the one who’s a cracker. They’ll soon find otherwise if they think they can play me twice.”  

Bixby put his hand to his face, as if suddenly weary. “Would you stop using that word for God’s sakes? You aren’t a cracker. You’re from _Lincolnshire_.”

Morse, with one hand on the bannister, drew himself up to his full height and looked down upon him haughtily. “Oh? Going to throw _that_ in my face, are you?”

 

In one rush, as if summoning all the energy he had, Morse went crashing and thundering down the wide stairs.

He had made it about three-quarters of the way down when, suddenly, he gripped onto the bannister and collapsed in a heap, throwing the crook of his free arm over his mouth and erupting into a fit of coughing.

 

When he drew his arm away, his white sleeve was red with blood.

 

Bixby’s eyes widened. “What the hell?” he cried.

 

“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” Morse managed, once he had lifted his face.

“ _Nothing_?” Bixby asked, coming up the stairs to close the space between them.

 

And Max understood at once, the odd look in Morse’s eye. Morse had always been such a complex and confusing man, that Max had overlooked the obvious: his eyes were shining as one’s did when one was half-delirious with fever.

 

”I’m fine,” Morse said. 

“That’s enough, Morse. Don’t be foolish. You know all too well that you need to go to hospital,” Max said.

“It’s nothing,” Morse insisted. “Thursday once coughed up a whole _bullet_!”

“Yes, after he’d been in hospital and on antibiotics until the tissues could heal as much as could be expected. I don’t know what you inhaled in that building, but it’s obviously . . . “ Max began.

 

But Morse was shaking his head. “No. No. Thursday wasn’t in hospital. I would have _remembered_ that. I would have visited him.” 

 

He closed his eyes and leaned up against the wall, his breathing shallow. 

“I would have remembered that,” Morse insisted, feebly.

 

“Deavour, let’s just go. I’ll stay with you the whole time. I promise," Bixby said. "You'll see. There’s nothing to it, old man." 

“You won’t be allowed,” Morse said, slowly opening his eyes. “You’ll come back here and get right back to your plots. Who is it you are calling? You might just be setting a trap for yourself. Don’t you know these people are all friends together? It’s a level of deception utterly beyond even you. Even Strange and his brothers! Even Thursday and his envelopes!”

“ _Brothers_? I thought Strange’s brother was a car mechanic in Iffey," Bixby said. "And envelopes? What? Are you still stuck on the idea of him writing a poem for Win?”

But Morse’s eyes had slipped closed once more. “They’re all up to their eyeballs in it,” he murmured.

“Endeavour. You’re not well. You aren’t making any sense,” Bixby said.

 

Max frowned. He wasn’t so sure. Strange had always made much of his association with the “secret brotherhood,” for all that one supposed he was to keep it a secret. And Thursday. Max knew he was having troubles at home. Possibly . . . financial problems? He had seemed of late awfully close to Box. But _envelopes?_

 

Max was so lost in thought he didn’t notice that Bixby was watching him.

“How much does the Home Office pay you a year?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” Max said. He knew all too well where the man was going. 

 

Bixby laughed. “Why are the English so stuffy about money? Think about it, old man. How would you like to quadruple your salary? For one patient? Buy yourself a nice little getaway place somewhere, eh?”

Then the vainglorious fellow actually _winked_ at him.

 

The offensive idea of being bribed notwithstanding, Joss Bixby's offer would have left him cold, at any rate. Morse was far more work than a full mortuary of corpses.

“Oh, Bix,” Morse said, softly, shaking his head.  “Just . . . just don’t ask.”

“Morse. You can’t ask me to be responsible for you," Max said. "You do understand that. You do know that you need to go to hospital, don’t you?”

 

Morse said nothing; he simply remained where he was, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed.

 

“It will be fine. You’ll see,” Bixby coaxed. “They’ll probably just give you some antibiotics and we’ll be home in a few hours.”

“Do you really think so?” Morse asked, hopefully.

“Of course,” Bixby said.

”I do sort of feel like hell.”

”There you go then. You’ll never beat me to punch like this. So let’s just go.”

Morse looked at him sharply. “If I go, you can’t go plotting while I’m there.”

”Who says I’m plotting? Of course, I won’t.”

”You’re only saying that because you just thought of a loophole.”

”Who says I thought of a loophole? You come up with the most incredible ideas sometimes. Besides, I won’t have the chance. They’ll probably just give you a chest X-ray and some pills and we’ll be on our way.”

 

Morse appeared to think it over. “Yes. I can ... I can manage that all right. They won’t.... I won’t have to ...”

"Of course not," Bixby said, even though Morse had not made it clear what it was he was asking. 

 

Max felt his mouth tighten with disproval.  In Max’s not uneducated opinion, Bixby’s scenerio was optimistic to say the least. Morse had let things go far too long for matters to be resolved quite so simply.

Was this how it always went? Bixby making promises he couldn’t keep?

 

“Morse, I really don’t think....” Max began. 

But Bixby widened his eyes at him over Morse’s shoulder. 

“It will be fine. You’ll see,” Bixby said. “Home in an hour, old man. All right?”

Morse didn't move for a moment. He seemed to have expended all the remnants of his strength in his dramatic decent down the stairs.

”All right,” he managed, at last. 

”All right, then. And I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

“That’s very nice of you to say," Morse said crisply. "But it’s probably best if I don’t have too many expectations. It’s hard, waiting for people who never come.”

“What this?” Bixby asked. “I was there as soon as I heard the last time you were in hospital. And Thursday was there all along, right from Maplewick Hall.”

 

Bixby looked to him as if seeking his opinion on what Morse was on about, but Max didn’t have the heart to say.

Max had felt a pang at the words.

He had a feeling Morse wasn’t talking about his hospital stay.

 

“Now," Bixby was saying. "Can you stand up?”

”I don’t know,” Morse said, his eyes blinking open lazily.

He maneuvered his feet beneath him and pulled himself halfway up, holding onto the banister. Then he sank down again. 

“Oh. Wait. I can’t go,” he said.

”Why on earth not?” Bixby huffed. "Just try once more.”

"I don’t have any shoes,” Morse said. “I threw them on the lawn somewhere. They're completely caked in mud." 

"Surely, you have another pair?" Bixby asked. 

"I don’t kn . . ." Morse paused mid-word and appeared to think it over. "They are out on the dock. I took them off when I was sitting out there, when you and Esme and Guillaume were on the hydroplanes."

"And they've been out there all of this time?” Bixby asked. “We've had that hard rain since then.”

"They'll have dried out by now.”

"Well, I'm not going all the way out there right _now,_ " Bixby replied, and Max at once understood.

By the time he returned, Morse most likely would have changed his mind, be far less tractable.

"You really brought only two pairs of shoes?" Bixby asked.

“Hmmmm," Morse said, leaning up against the wall again, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly.

He looked almost as if he was drifting off, but then he smiled.

" _Someone_ had to save that flight.”

 

A flicker of concern crossed Bixby’s face.

"The flight? Endeavour? What are you talking about?" 

"If I brought as many shoes as you did, the plane would not have made it, and we would have all gone down to meet our watery deaths in the Channel," Morse said. And then he was laughing, softly, almost as if he was a bit drunk.

 

Which he very well might have been to boot. 

 

Bixby smirked. "Ha ha, old man." 

 

And just like that, the tension seemed to deescalate. Just a moment ago they had been facing each other at opposite ends of the stairs.

Was this how it was done, then? Max wouldn’t know. He and Edward, it seemed, managed to get into row after row those last few months.

They just didn't seem to know how to get out of them, Max supposed. 

 

"Well, just wear a pair of mine,” Bixby was saying. “You'll mostly be sitting, so it shouldn’t matter. Just . . . just don't trip." 

“All right,” Morse said, and he ventured to stand once more.

 

 

In the end, Morse was unsteady enough on his feet as it was; the overlarge shoes didn't help. Once Bixby had gotten Morse through the door, he seemed to give up on the idea of dragging him along further. Instead, he swung one hand under Morse's knees and swooped him up in one deft movement.

Max had thought that Morse would protest, but at that point, he seemed to be miserable enough as to be beyond caring. As he would have to be, Max supposed, to agree to go to hospital in the first place. 

Bixby deposited Morse into his garrish yellow convertible with his typical grace, and then strolled over to the driver’s seat.

Max, in the meanwhile, took his time getting into his Morris, and once Bixby and Morse had driven out of sight, he went about the lawn in front of the house, looking again for where the shoes lay in the grass. Once he retrieved them, he scraped a bit of the dirt into a sample bag for forensics.

Then he put the shoes up by the door, under the portico, where they would, at least, be out of the rain. 

*****

 

“Any news, Fred?” Ronnie asked.

“No, it’s all come to a dead end.”

 

Thursday had spent the whole of afternoon chasing ghosts of the past—ghosts of a lost love and a chasm of regret. It was a sad tale, all around, and in the end, he had left Jacob Nicholson shaken over the loss of the friend he couldn’t manage to save and Ernest Burrowes pining for a love and life that once might have been.

They were two middle-aged men, whose only apparent crime had been that fate had lashed out at them with a surprise blow. They were mired down, stuck forever in the past.

 

And he, Thursday, made a fine third, didn’t he?

 

He had followed Win the other night again. He wasn’t proud of it. But there it was.

And then, last night, he had brought her home a box of chocolates, Cresswell’s, the brand that came with a Happy Families card. He had hoped it might remind her of Saturday nights when they used to sit around the telly with Joan and Sam.

“You used to like Happy Families,” he had said.  

“Hmmmm,” she said.

He was going nowhere. He was falling further and further behind. 

 

And, to top all—where was Morse? Professor Burrowes had said that Morse had called him on the telephone. But Miss Teagarden and Dr. Nicholson hadn’t mentioned speaking to him at all.

Morse had been, as ever, one step ahead of him, then; Morse, too, had left him behind. Whatever he had learned from Professor Burrowes had convinced him that, whatever anger and heartbreak lay between the two dons, it had no bearings on the case. While he, Thursday, had been following a cold trail to its bitter end, Morse had jumped track, leapt ahead of him somehow, and was already out pursuing other inquiries.

 

“Well,” Ronnie said. “I could use your help, if you’ve nothing better.”

************

Thursday knew what it was as soon as he saw it. The men were standing together as if waiting for them. This was no line of inquiry Box was pursuing. This was a shakedown, a meetup, something Councilor Burkitt had plotted and planned.

 

Slowly, Thursday got out of the car and headed over, his fists curling slightly, almost involuntarily, at his sides.

“Well,” Thursday said, looking between the two men. “I know you, Councilor Burkitt, so you must be McGyffin."

Then he turned to Ronnie. “Are you running him or is he running you?”

”It’s all right, Ronnie," the big man, McGyffin, said. “Why don’t you go and wait by the car, eh?”

“Guess that answers that,” Fred huffed. 

“You should hear ‘em out, Fred. For your own good,” Ronnie said.

And then he stalked off, like a sleek predator beating a hasty retreat once a more formidable foe has appeared at the watering hole.

 

“Your boy is sticking his beak in where it’s not wanted," McGyffin said, once Ronnie had headed off. "You stop him or we will.”

 

His boy.

By rights he had only one boy, Sam. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly who the man meant. 

What power the man felt that he had over Morse, however, was beyond Thursday's reckoning. The fragile peace they had made by Lake Silence notwithstanding, he and Morse had been at odds with one another for the bulk of the summer. Morse had been there, looking daggers at him at the scene of Adam Drake's car crash. He had pelted him with fistfuls of francs. He had walked past him on a busy street as if he didn't know who he was.

Getting Morse to back down off of a thing was simply not possible to begin with. And Thursday now might possibly be the last man even to try.

 

"You don’t know Morse," Thursday intoned. 

“How’s Charlie?” Burkitt said. 

“What did you say?” Thursday asked, at once. 

”Word is, the Yard’s looking for your brother in connection with a long firm fraud.”

"I wouldn’t know about that," Thursday said. 

“There’s a cheque with your name on it says different,” Burkitt said.

 

And Thursday felt his heart grow cold. He knew it. He had been waiting for it all along. 

 

“If on the other hand, Morse could be persuaded to do the right thing.....,” Burkitt said, in an almost cajoling, sing-song of a voice. 

“He’s an idealist,” Thursday said, simply.

 

Even if Thursday could, he wasn't sure if he _would_ reel Morse in. He had twice seen the light go out of the lad; he simply hadn’t the heart to drive it out of him a third time.

 

"I’m sure we all are," Burkitt said. 

“Maybe once, councilor. Now you’re just a villain. Same as this two-bob shitehawk.”

"Look. You play fair, and all your troubles disappear. The cheque, gone. Everything else back to how it was," Burkitt said. 

"You just bring him out to Wickelsham tomorrow. Maybe between us, we can talk some sense into him," McGyffin said. 

 

Right. Bring Morse straight to their lair. God only knew what "accidents" might happen once they got there. 

Thursday had been a fool, but damned if he’d be a Judas.

He turned on his heel and left, his heavy shoes crunching through sand and mud and clay. 

 

 ****

At the car, Ronnie was looking at him uncertainly. God only knew what he must look like; Ronnie seemed to go pale, almost as if he quaking slightly, at the sight of him. As it was, Thursday felt angry enough to incinerate the man with his eyes.

As soon as he was in reach of him, Thursday hauled off and punched him, square across the jaw, with a force that sent the DI crashing against the roof of the car.

"What’ve you got me into, you cowson?" he bellowed.

"You can’t beat ‘em, Fred. I know," Ronnie bleated. “I thought it would be just a nice little tickle. In and out, no harm done. But once you’re in, you’re in. These boys play for keeps.”

”It was you or Morse,” he said.

Thursday grabbed him by the lapels of his tight black jacket and prepared to slam him into the hood of the car once more, but at the last moment, he released him.

After all, he only had himself to blame.

******

 

Thursday was glad to be out of the car, back to the station. He felt contaminated, just having gone out to that place.

It was resolved then. It was him or Morse, was it?

Well, then, this was it. That chance he had been looking for.

He would handle this alone. He would handle this in a way that would make Win proud of him, proud to stand again beside him, or he’d die trying and that was that.

 

He felt twenty years younger, a surge of energy coursing through his body, stemming from what he knew to be righteous anger.

 

First thing would be to give Morse his walking papers.

Or try his damnedest anyway. It might mean taking a stick to a hornet’s nest, pushing their friendship to the breaking point, but better an angry and antagonized but living Morse than a dead one. 

Thursday stalked past the vending machines with long and forceful strides and looked down into Morse's basement of an office. He still wasn't back. Hell of a thing.

 “Where is Morse? Why isn’t he in his bunker?” Thursday shouted.

By god, if they've already taken him off somewhere, they would have hell to pay. He was a man with not much to lose these days. 

“Don’t you know?” Jago said. “He’s _your_ dog.”

“He’s nobody’s dog,” Thursday snapped.

“No?” Jago sniggered. “No, I suppose not. Copper's not got the pockets for a lap dog like that."

“Don’t be such a prick, Jago,”  Ronnie said.

Jago blinked.

Ronnie was unnerved still by the encounter, too, as much as Thursday was, and in his frustration, took his anger out on his sergeant.

Thursday should have seen it all sooner.

A bully is so often someone who feels bullied himself.

 

”I heard he saved a little girl. More than what you did,” Ronnie was saying. “Where the hell were you the other day, anyway? Down at the chippie? Didn’t have the sand for a hard day’s work?”

“What girl?” Thursday asked.

Ronnie turned and looked at him. “From Cranmer House. He ran in there, Morse, to help some kiddie, evidently, right before the collapse. I wasn’t working far off when I saw the sawbones dig them out.”  

Thursday stood as if stunned. “Well, was he all right?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Standing on his own two feet at last time I saw him.”

”Where the hell is he now?” Thursday asked.

“In hospital, probably. With all the rest that got pulled out of the rubble.”

Thursday scowled. Why hadn’t Bixby called him?

He’d have to go over to Cowley General and see him for himself. Stop him from getting himself into any more trouble.

It sounded as if he had enough to be going on with.

********

“You wanted to see me, Worshipful Master?” Strange asked.

“Someone is threatening the good works and reputation of this lodge. A man known to you,” McGyffin said.

“How’s that?”

“Morse, brother.”  

 

Strange stilled at that. Morse. The man who told him once that he would one day have to choose between two masters.

 

 “Let us not deal falsely, eh? You’d be doing him a bit of good, if you can appeal to his reason. Can’t hurt your prospects, though, can it. _Inspector_ Strange?”  

“ _Inspector_?” Strange asked.

“For those who keep their oaths, brother, all things are possible.”

 

Strange grimaced. It was certainly some sort of reckoning that McGyffin would try to tempt him so: offering a promotion in exchange for betraying the very man who had first had faith that he might one day rise to such a rank.

Last summer, when he had seen Morse again for the first time in years, Morse had been sitting at his desk, typing with a speed with which he never would have thought him capable. The paper he left behind was filled with random thoughts and trails of words that Strange could not follow, but among those words were these:

 

_Perhaps Morse’s role had not been to be the river that was Morse, but to change the course of the river that was Strange. After the river that was Morse crashed over the rocks, the river that was Strange would flow on—but it would not meander through the world of the Masons, become stymied in a thick bog of corruption and connections. It would be a river that was straight and true._

_Strange had the potential to be Chief Superintendent one day. How many lives might be changed because Strange had finally been forced to choose and had chosen rightly?_

_The next time there would be a cavalry. And Strange would be the one to lead it._

Strange hadn’t been sure what to do with the paper; it had all sounded half-mad. But he had decided that, if he owed anyone his loyalty, it was Morse.

In the end, he memorized the words Morse had written about him, to be sure he would not forget the next time.

Then he had balled the paper up and thrown it away.

 

Strange nodded to McGyffin. And then he turned away.

Truer words were never spoken, brother, he thought.

It was time to make good on his oath.

*************

Jim Strange sat at his desk, a yellow circle of light cast on the cardboard files stacked there, a towering pile of records that he looked through one by one. After that whole debacle at the Moonlight Rooms last winter, he’d promised himself he’d get to the bottom of it.

Ames dead. Nero dead. A bloodbath at some posh party. Another shooting on a busy shopping street. Two officers shot. That whole ruckus with Morse and Bixby and Reese and Dawkins at Londsale. He had told Thursday that Oxford was beginning to resemble the Wild West, and he wasn’t wrong.  

There was some other element at play, Strange was certain of it. After all the deaths and arrests last winter, the heroin  overdoses had gone on unchecked.

 

And there it was.

 

It was the gun that shot Fancy and Meehan, right there, on file—had been there all along. It was used in a wages snatch in’64. Quickly, Strange’s eyes scanned the signature at the bottom of the page.

 _R._ _Box_

“Son of a . . .”

Strange’s hand flew to the phone to lift the receiver.

But then he paused. To whom should he confide his suspicions? The old man, Strange hated to say, was awfully tight, with Box these days, wasn’t he? And Morse? This was just the sort of thing he was waiting to hear. He was far too invested in the case to be counted on to keep a cool head, to not go off half-cocked after Box on his own.

Then, the simple answer came to him.

Why not call the man who could confirm the question one way or the other?

He picked the receiver up and dialed Thames Valley headquarters.

“Fancy?” he asked. “Jim Strange.”

********

“Box?” Fancy laughed. “It wasn’t Box. I would have _known_ if it was Box, wouldn’t I? I can’t bloody stand that man.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Fancy said. “The man who took that shot at me, he was only about my height. Had a husky sort of voice. His eyes were different, too. Wait. So. . . you think it was a _copper_?”

Strange said nothing.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No. I thought it wiser not to.”

“Why not?” Fancy asked.

Strange shrugged.

Fancy looked at him, his mouth pursed in an odd twist of disapproval; it was as if he was channeling Morse.

“What?” Strange asked.

“I dunno,” Fancy replied. “I can’t help but think, that’s what missing, since the merger. We used to trust each other. A house divided soon falls, isn’t that what they say?” Fancy asked.

”Yeah,” replied Strange. “I suppose it is.”

 ******

Bixby spun the wheel angrily as he turned into the drive, throwing the back end of the canary yellow convertible so that it spun in nearly a half-circle behind him. He was mad as hell. 

 

What harm was he doing, just sitting there in that cheap plastic chair? He tried to pass the doctor a hundred pounds or so, but the man just sniffed as if he were offended, raised his eyebrows at him as if he were Holier Than Thou.

Guess he was doing all right for himself. Guess he and DeBryn should set up a nice little club together. 

The exceptional part was, when Bix had tried to protest, the odious little man had _actually_ threatened to call the _police_. 

Endeavour  _is_ the police, Bixby had said.

The doctor clearly had an axe to grind. “You can’t expect special treatment just because he’s a celebrity of sorts,” he snorted.

Who was asking for special treatment? Bixby was just asking for the same treatment as anyone else.   _Technically,_ he wasn’t immediate family, but there wasn’t much he could do about that, was there?

 

The worst part was how calmly Endeavour had taken it all. It was like watching a film rewind, as he had grown steadily more pale and withdrawn, as his eyes had grown larger and warier, as if he was rewinding right back into Pagan.

”It’s all right, Bix,” he said, as if he all along knew not to expect anything better. "I'm sure it won't be long." 

He would have stayed and raised hell, but it was clear that his anger was serving only to rattle Endeavour. Endeavour was accustomed to him remaining cool and unruffled in any and all circumstances, and he hadn’t been quite that these past few days.

He settled instead on waiting in the lobby downstairs, until he figured out that no one was ever going to bother to tell him a damn thing. He'd be better off at home, where at least Endeavour could call him. 

 

As he approached the house, Bixby began to frown . . . There was something odd, there, about the front door . . . there were . . .   _people s_ itting outside the front door.

Bixby groaned. He was not in the mood to deal with any of those Endeavour look-alike crackpots from the lake house right at this particular moment, thank you very much.

But as the car drew closer, Bixby noticed it wasn’t any little group of fervent disciples on pilgrimage at all. It was Esme and Guillaume, sitting on the steps like a couple of boxes dropped by the postman.

They stood up as he pulled into the circle, and as soon as he got out of the car, Esme rounded on him.

“Why wouldn’t anyone come to the door? Do you still not have anyone working here?” she called.

At any other time, Bix would had laughed. That was Esme all over: she was next-door to an unrepentant little Marxist, but now, when it would have made her life more convenient, she suddenly wanted to know why he didn’t have a full-time butler simply to answer the door for her. 

“We’re just here for the summer,” Bix shrugged.

 

The honest answer was, he didn’t know what an English staff would make of them, of he and Endeavour living together. Esme and Guillaume's grandmother and Adele and Madame Lambert knew all about them, of course, but they were French and Endeavour was a poet, so _c'est_ _la_ _vie_. But in Oxfordshire? Bixby wasn’t so sure.

 

“What’s going on?” Bixby asked, changing the subject. “I didn’t know you were coming down today.”

For a mad moment, Bixby thought that perhaps Endeavour had sent them as a means of slowing him down—it would be difficult to plan his spectacle of a revenge with a first-year college kid and a teenager in tow. It would put a cramp in his style, that was for certain. If he brought any ramifications on the house with the kids there, Endeavour would never forgive him. 

But Endeavour was in hospital; he could not have asked them down, set them to the task of keeping him busy.

Not that it mattered anyway, considering Bix had thought of a loophole.

 

Esme cast a dark look at Guillaume,  who immediately looked contrite. 

"Guillaume went up to London with a group and went on some sort of . . . how do you say?" Esme asked.

"Pub crawl," Guillaume said.  Then he turned to Esme. "I got pissed, all right? What can I say? I'm sorry." 

"And now he's lost his passport along with everything else, and we’re due to fly home next week," Esme said. 

Bixby sighed.

"Well, come on," he said, walking up the steps to the house. "I'll see what time it is, if the passport office is still open. Maybe I can put a bit of a rush on things. Otherwise, maybe we'll have to leave Guillaume here. I guess the extra seat will give us all a bit of extra room to spread out on the flight home.”

Guillaume looked slightly alarmed. 

Esme rolled her eyes at him. 

"He's kidding," she explained at last.  

 

"Oh," Guillaume said. 

"Where's Endeavour?" Esme asked as Bixby was unlocking the door. 

Bixby paused. "He's in hospital." 

" _What_?" Guillaume asked. 

"He was in that building collapse. At Cranmer House. Have you heard about it?" 

"Everyone has heard about it," Esme said. "Well. Why are we here? Why don't we go and see him?" 

"They kicked me out," Bixby said.

"What did you do?" Esme asked shrewdly. 

"I didn't do _anything_ ," Bixby said, spreading his hands wide. "I was just sitting there, when the doctor told me open visit hours were over. He threatened to call the _police_ on me, when I pressed him to stay. Said I was violating hospital rules. Late visiting hours are for immediate family only."

He pushed the door open with a little more force than was his wont; his temper had abated a bit when he first saw the kids, but now he felt a new surge of it coursing through his veins. 

Once he had taken a few quick strides into the foyer, he turned around. Esme and Guillaume were on the threshold, looking a bit stunned; they hadn't followed him inside. 

"But. . . . " Guillaume began, looking uncertain. “If _we_ aren’t his immediate family, who is?”

It was the first thing Guillaume had said that Esme seemed to agree with, the first thing that hadn't gotten on her last nerve. 

“Is he all right? He’ll be awfully low there on his own. He might just leave if he gets the chance, won’t he? Isn’t there some way we can visit a while, at least?” Esme asked.

At her side, Guillaume was looking thoughtful, uncharacteristically solemn.

Bixby felt a surge of solidarity with them. Their Endeavour wasn’t Morse, the former police officer, but Endeavour, their  tutor, who they knew typically preferred to stick within a five-mile radius of home.

Their Endeavour was his Endeavour.

Guillaume shrugged. “Seems as if there must be some sort of way,” he said, “after all, if the pelican can....”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been about a year now since I started this AU.... oh, yikes!  
> If anyone is still hanging on till the end, I would love to know! :0)  
> I‘ll post the final two chapters together for the series’ end...


	13. “You Want Another Blenheim Vale?”

 

 

Joss Bixby believed in luck.

Endeavour might be fond of saying, “That’s just how it goes,” but Bixby would never believe it.

 

And if Endeavour thought it amusing to call him a twentieth-century Dumb Ox of Sicily, that was fine, then. Because Bixby always knew that fate had big things in store for him, that everything happened for a reason.

 

The sudden appearance of Esme and Guillaume on their doorstep, dropped out of the sky  _deux_   _ex_   _machina_ , as it were, further convinced Bix of the rightness of his decision—the decision he had made at the moment that Endeavour had sank on the staircase in a fit of coughing, clearly done in.

  

 

Before they had left for Britain, Esme and Guillaume had sworn up and down that they wouldn’t even  _dream_  of calling on them for help. They had been half-resentful, in fact, when their parents had seemed so happy to hear that he and Deavour were planning to spend the summer in Oxford.

“We don’t need Endeavour and Monsieur Bixby to look after us,” Esme had said. “I’m eighteen. Legally, I’m an adult. And Guillaume,” ....  she looked at her younger brother, considering. “Well, he almost is. In a way.”

Guillaume, who at a lanky sixteen towered over her, had scowled.

 

Yet here they were, after all—and calling not on Endeavour, as one would think, but on him specifically. 

They were savvy enough to know which of the two of them might be more likely to pull a passport out of thin air.

 

They looked to him with the same trust that Endeavour had placed in him when Bix had left him at the hospital, with assurances that he would come back for him as soon as he might be allowed.

 

It was something altogether new to consider, but it was true all the same: In dealing with Clive Burkitt, Bixby had to remember that his life was no longer just his own. There were people now who relied on him. 

 

Bixby had been wanted. He had been envied. He had been desired.

But never really .... needed.

 

In the past, he had nothing to lose. Money? Easily lost, perhaps, but, for him? More easily gained.

But, in his own way, he was the father of a family now.

Or  _a_  father—one of two.

Or something like that.

Why should he risk his family’s safety when there were safer, subtler methods with which to extract his revenge?

 

One voice might be silenced, but once the story was out for all to see, there wasn’t much Burkitt and McGyffin could do, was there?

 

Because Endeavour was right.

Bixby had found a loophole.

Even half delirious with the throes of a runaway fever, Endeavour could read his poker face the way no one else could.

 

Bixby sank into the leather chair behind his desk and stacked the files and documents before him with considerable satisfaction. He might not host an array of glittering bashes as he had in the past, but he certainly had not lost the old charm. It was amazing what he could wheedle out of people, when he put his mind to it.  

As his mother always said—you catch more flies with honey.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number listed in the newspaper’s masthead. 

“Dorothea Frazil, Oxford Mail,” a voice intoned.

“Dorothea? Joss Bixby. I have a story you might be interested in,” he said.

********

Thursday went through the broad front doors of Cowley General and then to the main nurse’s station. A young nurse wearing her cap set jauntily on the back of her blonde hair looked up from a clipboard at his approach.

“Detective Inspector Fred Thursday, Thames Valley,” he said. “I’m here to see Endeavour Morse.”

“Oh,” the nurse said, looking uncertain. “Sorry to have troubled you. We didn’t need the police, after all. That man finally left of his own accord.”

“What man?” Thursday asked, sharply. “What’s this?”

 

It wasn’t one of McGyffin’s thugs, who had been by, was it?

 

“That man causing the disturbance in Mr. Morse’s room,” the nurse explained. “It may have seemed a bit extreme, calling the police, but Dr. Calhoun is very strict about visiting hours. What with the collapse at Cranmer House, we are filled beyond capacity, and we do need some degree of order. Our patients need their quiet.”

 

Oh. If it was a case of a visitor wanting to stay beyond the regular hours, the man in question could only have been Bixby.

Bix was accustomed to tossing a bit of money around to get the rules bent on his or Morse’s behalf. It sounded as if Bix had pressed one of the doctors to let him to stay longer than what was allowed and had run into a stickler—perhaps a doctor who took offense at Bix’s silky attempt at handing him off a little kickback.

 

“I wasn’t called out, Miss,” Thursday explained.  “I’m here on another matter. I need to speak to Endeavour Morse on police business.  _Urgent_  police business,” he said, holding up his warrant card.

The nurse hesitated, her eyes roving between his face and the card he held aloft.

“I promise I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” he assured her.

“All right,” she said. “If it’s police business…” she added, uncertainly, her eyes still on his warrant card, wondering, no doubt, if that didn’t trump the aforementioned Dr. Calhoun’s wishes.

 

“Mr. Morse in room 312,” she said, more decisively.

“Thank you, Miss,” Thursday said, and he made his way toward the elevators, careful already to keep his footfalls soft, the better to display his good intentions.

 

He had to get to Morse, to talk with him for at least five minutes. It was clear he had been pursuing inquiries in regard to McGyffin and Burkitt with a degree of recklessness that only he could.

And Thursday was there to put an end to that right now.

Before some sort of “accident” happened.

 

Finally, he came to Morse’s room on the third floor. And then he stopped short.

The man in the bed was lying so utterly still that, for a moment, Thursday thought he must have the wrong room; for a moment, he couldn’t believe it was Morse, lying there so quietly.

Morse always seemed to be in motion, slouching in his chair, stalking off self-righteously, rubbing up the hair at the back of his nape or clicking thoughtfully on a pen. But now, he was lying as motionless and as pale as a marble effigy on a coffin.

He was laid out on his back with an enormous bandage wrapped around his head, so that only a few wayward russet curls spiraled out— the only bit of color against the white of his face, the white of the bandages, and the white of the bedsheets and walls. He looked to be hooked up to four or five IV bags.

“Jesus,” Thursday muttered softly.

No wonder Bixby had raised hell. No doubt he hadn’t wanted to leave Morse in such a state.

“Morse?” he queried softly, stepping closer to the bed.

But Morse’s face did not twitch in the slightest—it remained as still as a frozen pond in winter.

 

What had happened to him?

 

Well, they might throw Bixby out, but Thursday had better sense, knew how to play their game. He had urgent police business to discuss. He had a warrant card. He would sit here quietly until Morse woke up. That was all.

He wandered over to the end of the bed and picked up the clipboard, openly reading it without apology. It didn’t sound as if anything was gravely the matter. The lad must simply be knackered.

Thursday set his hat down on the foot of Morse’s bed and made himself as comfortable as he could in one of the hospital-issue plastic chairs.

His back would pay for it later, but it was all right.

Morse looked as if he had been through the wringer as it was; Thursday would not leave until he warned him off from the case. He didn’t need another Blenheim Vale, did he?

 

It wasn’t bad sitting here, listening to Morse’s deep and even breathing, punctuated by the occasional rattle. He was better company than the empty house he faced at home. It was far better to sit and wait with Morse than to sit on the couch in his living room, watching the clock on the mantle, wondering what time Win might get in, flushed with happiness and dancing.

He closed his eyes. Might as well get a kip in, until Morse woke up.

After all, he didn’t have anywhere else to be until his next shift.

 

*******

“I look like my deranged identical twin,” Bixby said. “I don’t know how this is going to fool anyone.”

He scrutinized himself in the small mirror above a rack of reading glasses. The prescription was fairly weak, but still, it made things in the mid-distance uncomfortably blurry. Not to mention that the heavy frames were not in the least bit attractive on his face; they gave his eyes a harsh look, even seeming to magnify them slightly.

“Don’t be so negative,” Esme said. “Endeavour always says people are far less observant than you would think. A pair of glasses, a change of hairstyle, and voila! —you’re a different person altogether— Endeavour’s brother, come down from Lincolnshire.”

She eyed him critically.

“Can you do a Lincolnshire accent, do you think? Your French is fairly flawless, so I suppose you must be good at that sort of thing.”

Bixby huffed a laugh. If only she knew.

 

But wait.... had she said...?

 

“What do you mean, a change of  _hair_?” he asked.

But Esme had already headed down another aisle of the shop.

“Esme?” he called. 

“If I had the time, what we should really do is peroxide it. Your hair is awfully dark for that, but it might lighten it up a little, make the story look more plausible,” she said.

“ _Peroxide_?” Bixby cried. "Isn't that permanent?"

“There’s no time,” she said, waving her hand. “Maybe we can just muss it up a little with some sort of product. The scruffy look is in, you know. You always have every hair in place like it’s 1925.”

“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” Bix said.

 

But she ignored him. 

 

“Yes," she said, considering a shelf of cans and tubes. "A different look might be enough."

 Suddenly, she looked up, as if inspiration had struck.

"Does Endeavour have that T-Shirt with him? The one that I gave him with the snooty blue dog on it?” she asked.

“Oh no,” Bix said. “That shirt would be far too tight on me. I’d look like I was trying too hard.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with all of this," Guillaume said. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sounds like it  _could_  be a terrific plan. Too bad they look nothing alike whatsoever.”

“You and I don’t look so much alike,” Esme said.

“We do more than Endeavour and Monsieur Bixby.”

Esme waved her hand again, as if it that was a minor concern. “There’s probably been a shift change by now, anyhow.”

****

Hell if Esme wasn’t right. There  _was_  a different nurse at the main station, a middle-aged woman with bobbed red hair.

Wearing the ridiculous glasses, Bix couldn’t see worth a damn, but that seemed to work all the more to his favor— half-blind and discombobulated, he must have seemed completely harmless, and therefore, brought out the nurse’s compassionate instincts. 

“It’s immediate family only, after six, I’m afraid,” she said, sadly, as if she hated to disappoint him. 

“Oh. Well I’m his brother. I came as soon as I could but . . . . it was a long drive down from Lincolnshire," Bixby said.  

For a terrible moment, he feared she might ask his name—shouldn’t he have a virtue name to match Endeavour’s?

But all she said, was, “Well, that’s nice, isn't it dear? Room 312." 

 

As soon as he went into the room, Bix pushed the glasses off his face and up onto his forehead, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing: Endeavour was laid out silently on his back, his face tipped up, as pale as if he had been carved from stone.

 

“What the hell? What did they do to him?” he cried. 

 

Thursday, slumped and napping in a chair in the corner, woke with a jolt.

Anyone else might have been disoriented, waking up in a strange place, but Thursday was immediately alert, looking at him sharply.

“He was fine when I left,” Bixby said, answering at once the question that was clear on the Inspector’s face.  “Not best pleased to be here, but resigned enough. He just had a respiratory infection, they said. Same as many of the people rescued from Cranmer House. They said they were simply going to start him on antibiotics.”

Thursday shrugged. “That’s all it says on his chart,” he said, and then added, slightly sheepishly, “There was no one to ask. So I read it.”

 

“Hello, Mr. Thursday,” Esme and Guillaume chorused quietly behind him.

Bixby had forgotten for a moment they were there. He was sorry now he had brought them; he thought for sure Endeavour would be sitting up at least by now, watching the door in wait for him, or perhaps even morosely working his way through a crossword puzzle. That they’d all have a good laugh at how he and the kids had managed to sneak in.

 

Bix crossed the room and went over to the bed, turning so that his back was to the others, and traced a thumb along Endeavour’s cheekbone, which felt reassuringly warm, despite the fact that his face was so still. Surreptitiously, Bix raised the thumb to his lips, and, as he suspected, tasted a trace of salt.

So. Endeavour’s front had crumbled at some point. Probably when they did whatever the hell it was they had done to his head. That gash seemed to be healing well enough. Why couldn’t they just let him be?

Bixby eyed the IV bags on the stand.

“They have him drugged up on something,” he said, more to himself than the others, but, as he said the words, he realized they must be true.

 

Goddamn it. What had Endeavour been doing? Could it really have been so awful that they needed to knock him out like an animal in a nature reserve?

 

“I don’t know what I am supposed to do,” Bixby said.

And he was nothing to Endeavour. Not really. Not as far as the hospital was concerned. Even if he knew what he should be doing, it didn’t necessarily mean that he could make that happen. He felt powerless. And he wasn’t used to feeling powerless.

It seemed as if he should have a better answer. Especially in front of the kids. Surely, kids looked to adults to fix problems, wasn’t that so? Trouble was.....this was a little more complicated than putting in a few calls to the passport office.

 

Bixby stood watching Endeavour’s chest rise and fall, listening to that faint crackle. He needed to be here, from the sound of his breathing, that was certain.

 

Maybe it was for the best. He hated to say it. . . It felt like a betrayal even to  _think_  it . . . but perhaps it was for the best that Endeavour sleep through his entire hospital stay.

Although that sounded wrong, too.

 

“Oh. Hello, then,” came a familiar voice from the door. “I’m just came on shift, and I thought I’d pop by and see how Morse is getting on.”

 

And, for the second time that day, Bixby was actually relieved to see DeBryn.

 

No one said anything. No one seemed to know quite how to answer.

 

All Bixby could think to do was to step aside, so that he was not blocking Endeavour from DeBryn’s line of vision.

And as soon as he did so, the doctor’s eyes widened.

 

He stepped into the room and looked over Endeavour’s silent form.

“Morse?”

“Already tried that, doctor,” Thursday said, grimly, from his chair in the corner. “He’s out cold.”

DeBryn’s eyes went straight to the bags on the IV stand, and he began turning each one so that he could read the writing there. Then he scowled, slightly, his face tight with disapproval.

 

Esme caught the look at once. “Is that bad?” she asked, and her voice suddenly sounded a bit younger, lost that hard edge she usually tried to give to it.  

 

DeBryn gave her a curious glance, no doubt wondering who she must be—and then a flicker of realization lit his usually expressionless face. Endeavour certainly had mentioned Esme and Guillaume to him at one point or another; he had just needed a moment to place them.

“Not  _bad_ , per se, no,” he said. “One simply wonders why someone might think them necessary,” DeBryn said.

 

Bixby snorted softly. “Does one, really?” he asked.

 

As well as he might wish it otherwise, he had had that feeling all along—that feeling in his gut that told him that this would all be a disaster, and he couldn’t help now but to feel a bit vindicated.

 

DeBryn blinked at him, owlishly.

 

“I’m just saying,” Bixby said, “maybe it’s for the best. This way, he’s won’t even know he’s here. He can just wake up and go home.” 

 

The doctor frowned at him, as if slightly horrified by what he was seeing. He didn't say anything, but he could say a lot with his face, the pathologist. He looked at him as if he had spoken of Endeavour as a highly-strung poodle that he had dropped off at the groomer's. 

 

But that wasn’t quite fair, either.

DeBryn didn’t know how panicked Endeavour could become when he found himself in a situation that veered out of his control. He hadn’t seen Endeavour head straight up the steps to their house, as if he felt he might fly to pieces if he couldn’t get inside. He had never had to veer off of the main hiking trail of a forest with him, cutting through a shortcut back to the car, because Endeavour couldn't bear so many people looking at him.

Bixby would never be able to explain himself to DeBryn; it was as if they spoke a different language. There was always and would always be a fundamental disconnect between them.

DeBryn’s Endeavour had been a detective constable—a man who had chased criminals down alleyways and confronted mobsters in dodgy nightclubs. Bixby’s Endeavour was a writer, who generally stuck within a five-mile radius of home, content with, and even dependent on, a placid and predictable pace of life.

 

Endeavour was no longer a police officer, hadn’t been for years. He was a poet, for Christ’s sake.

What would he do now, if confronted with some shifty-eyed villain?

 

Attack him with his typewriter?  

 

Bixby ran his hands through his hair in frustration. The truth was, he didn’t know what to do, much as he was loath to admit it in front of the kids.

It felt, too, as if DeBryn was still watching him, judging him.

 

Why was the man always so damn hard? 

 

He hated that look. It made Bix feel wrong-footed, as if he didn’t know the real Endeavour, as if he had somehow missed the best of him, as if he had only gotten the ashes that remained.

But they didn’t know what Bixby knew—that Endeavour was a phoenix, that he remade himself again and again, that it was not ashes that survived the disaster, but refined gold. The Endeavour that the doctor had known threw himself into the path of danger in the way that only those who have nothing to lose can. Bixby’s Endeavour knew all too well the meaning of fear, and still, he went out into the world in spite of the fact.

He didn’t deserve anyone’s scrutiny. Neither of them did.

 

Bixby sighed.  “Look,” he said, at last.  “I don’t know what to do, all right? I don’t even know how things spiraled this far out of control.”

And it was true: He had just wanted Endeavour to put in a report about his stolen satchel. Not head out to take down some sinister cabal of thugs single-handedly.

 

“Tell me,” DeBryn said. “Are you a doctor?”

 

What was he playing at now? Did he have to rub his face in it? 

 

“No,” Bixby said, shortly.

“Well, then,” he said. “I would say it’s not up to you to know what to do. You are  _supposed_  to be able to rely on those professionals to whom you entrust your loved one’s care to make those decisions.”

 

He said the words a bit snippily, but Bixby was given to understand that his waspishness, for once, was not aimed at him.

 

DeBryn went over to the door, striding across the room with brisk authority. He seemed the height of calm, but it was clear that he was waiting for someone to come down the hall, that he was spoiling for a fight.

It wasn’t long before his silent presence in the doorway caught the attention of the attending physician. Bixby ducked his head down, and then sank into a chair beside Thursday, to keep his presence inconspicuous. 

 

“DeBryn,” Dr. Calhoun said, “Are you on this ward?”

“Called in,” DeBryn said. “Henderson at the Home Office called and said Cowley was in need of extra hands, that you are overbooked, what with the tower collapse.” He tilted his head. “I must say, I don’t quite understand why a patient with an upper respiratory infection and a simple laceration is on such a heady collection of sedatives.”

 

Dr. Calhoun frowned, picking up on the implication that his judgment was being called into question loud and clear. 

 

“The patient has been agitated since he arrived. We felt it was best for his safety and for the safety of the staff,” he said.

Bix was afraid to say a word, lest he capture the man’s attention, so he was glad that Thursday said it.

“ _Safety_?” Thursday asked, incredulously.

“The patient . . . objected strongly. . . when my assistant attempted to suture that gash," the doctor said. "He has been a difficulty, in general. We felt it more expedient to . . .”

“So rather than take the time to reassure him,” DeBryn interrupted, “You decided it would be more expedient to drug him senseless, is that right?”

 

The kids were watching the exchange, round-eyed, and for the second time in fifteen minutes, Bixby found himself wishing he had never brought them.

 

“We are filled beyond capacity. We don’t have the time to dote on pampered celebrities,” Dr. Calhoun said.

“Well, then,” DeBryn said. “I suppose that’s why they called us up. If you don’t have the time, then consider yourself relieved.”

“What?” Dr. Calhoun asked. 

But DeBryn was already crossing over to the clipboard at the foot of Endeavour’s bed and beginning to write.

“I said, ‘consider yourself relived.’ I’ll take this case. It’s why I was called in, I suppose, after all.”

 

Bix had no idea what the pecking order of the medical staff was, if DeBryn outranked him officially or not, but he had been to enough board meetings to understand who knew how best to wield what authority he had, and, it was clear, in this case, that that accolade would go to DeBryn.

Dr. Calhoun hesitated in the door for a moment. Then he made a sour face and left in a huff, leaving a charged space of annoyance behind him.

DeBryn watched him go in satisfaction and then turned his attention to the IV bags.

 

“So, old man,” Bixby said. “Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?”

“I’m here as a Home Office doctor called in on auxiliary,” DeBryn said, stiffly.

 

As crowded as the place was, Bix could well believe it. But he couldn’t quite believe that it was mere coincidence, either, that DeBryn just happened to be assigned to this particular ward.

He must have had second thoughts.

Bixby leaned forward, and ran his hand through his hair again, this time with relief. It wasn’t the worst feeling in the world, knowing that someone else understood—that someone knew their weak points, and didn’t think the less of them for it.

It would be all right.

 

Thursday had been silent through most of the exchange, but now he spoke up, forcefully. “As soon as he’s awake, and you've said your hellos, I’ll need you lot to clear out,” he said. “I need to talk to him about the case.”

Bixby looked at him, surprised. He seemed uncharacteristically mulish. From the dark look on Thursday’s face, Bixby suspected that by ‘talk,’ he meant warning Endeavour off from whatever he had been doing.

Which was fine by Bixby.

“That’s fine then, old man,” he said.

 

***********

You would think that they would get tired of it, that they might leave him alone, but it soon became obvious that it was futile to hope. It was always the same—the sudden, breath-catching tightness of a hand, grasping a handful of hair at the back of his head, the searing pain across his forehead, the world turning to black. And then he woke up, in an entirely different place, wondering how he had gotten there, trying to guess from the pains and bruises what had happened to his body while it wasn’t his.

He grew cautious, accustomed to listening for footsteps or for the movement of hands behind him. But even when he tried to defend himself, there was still hell to pay. He was a cop killer, and the guards hated him more than his fellow inmates did for being a police officer and a fairy college boy to boot.

He would try to explain that it was not his fault he was out of bounds, that he had been deposited someplace where he was not supposed to be while he had been unconscious, that he had been gone for god only knew how long, but there was no point. There was no point.

Still, he tried. 

 

Endeavour opened his eyes. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

And then, as if out of a dream, there was a scent of aftershave, bright and sharp like the thrill of safety, of having reached home base in a game of tag. And then a warm and rich voice was rolling through the fog.

“That’s not how I heard it, old man.”

Endeavour looked around the white room, and he was floating out of the darkness.

“Bix?”

“Yes,” Bix said.

Bix’s face came into focus, slowly, but there was something wrong, something out of place, something that made Endeavour feel as if he was still dreaming.

Bixby flicked a glance to the door and lifted the heavy pair of glasses he had been wearing. “What do you think of my new look?” he asked.

“I don’t like it,” Endeavour said.

Bix laughed. “They don’t give me a cunning, sinister sort of look? I don’t look darkly devious?”

 

Endeavour felt a small edge of worry needling at him through the heaviness: sometimes Bix put up such a thickly jovial facade when his walls were at their thinnest.

Was something troubling him?

At any rate, there was no point in talking to him when he was in one of these playful sort of moods, no getting straight answers out of him, unless one got right to the point.

 

“Where is this?” Endeavour asked.

“You’re in hospital,” Bix said. “Don’t you remember? You’ve been ill, you collapsed on the stairs, back at home.”

“Why?”

“You were in the building collapse, at Cranmer House. Don't you remember it? You inhaled some fragments of cinder and insulation, evidently. They’re giving you antibiotics now.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Endeavour said.  

“Do you remember?”

“Yes,” Endeavour said, and Bix smiled, and it was his natural smile, the tension Endeavour had not noticed there before easing from his face.

Endeavour glanced around the white room, and his eyes fell on Esme and Guillaume. “Why are you here?”

“We’re skiving off,” Guillaume said,

 

Endeavour scowled slightly. They shouldn’t be doing that, missing class.

 

“Why?”

“We came to visit you,” Guillaume said.

"Oh," Endeavour said. "That was nice of you. But how did you get here from the colleges?" 

“Guillaume lost his passport, so we got a cab up to the house,” Esme reported.  

 

Through the heavy haze, Endeavour felt another flicker of anxiety in his chest. They were supposed to be leaving, for France. And he wanted to . . . he wanted to go.  

 

“But we’re supposed to be leaving,” Endeavour said.

“I’ll get it sorted out,” Bix said.

 

And Bix always got things sorted out. It would be all right.

“It’s all right,” Endeavour agreed, trying to cheer up Guillaume, who was looking a bit anxious. Doubtless either Bix or Esme—or the both of them— had told him that the simplest solution would be to leave him behind. They were just alike that way, Esme and Bix.

“Accidents happen,” Endeavour told him. “It will be all right. Don't worry, Guillaume. Bix probably has a whole drawer full of extra passports, back at the house.”

Endeavour laughed then, but, Bixby, for once, didn’t; instead, he flicked a nervous glance toward the corner of the room. 

 

And Endeavour shouldn’t have laughed, either, because laughing started him coughing. And why couldn't he stop coughing? It was hard to breathe, it was like the walls of a cell closing tight around him. 

But then Bixby's hand was at his back, helping him to sit up, and it was better, sitting up. He could breathe again. It would be fine, then. 

 

“I’m glad I’m not dying," Endeavour said. 

And he thought he was only thinking the words, but he must have said them out loud, because someone said, “You aren’t dying, Morse. You were simply over-sedated.”

 

Endeavour turned his head. Max was there. And Thursday, too.

“Hello,” he said.

Max seemed a bit amused by something. Thursday did not.

“This is a fine state. He’s as high as a kite. How am I supposed to talk to him?” Thursday said.  

“What do want to talk to me about?”  Endeavour asked.

“The case.”

“What case?” Endeavour asked.

And Thursday's face turned a shade darker.

 

But there  _was_  a case. There was something and . . . . HB and the Gower Peninsula, and he felt like a golem, heavy and made out of clay, and accidents happen, and had they already gotten hold of him? Was that why he was here? If only he could think.

Endeavour raised his hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“The effects will wear off in a few hours. Your fever seems to be breaking, as well, so soon you should feel much better. All right? Morse?” Max said. 

“All right,” Endeavour said.

“Oh, damn,” Thursday said. “I took the night rota. I’m already late calling in.”

“I’d try coming back in a few hours,” Max suggested. And then added, "Or even in the morning."

"Brilliant," Thursday said, and then he thundered out of the room. 

And why was Thursday so angry? He was always in such a black mood of late. Why wouldn’t he simply give Mrs. Thursday one of those poems? 

 

Then Max turned to Bix. “If you want to take Esme and Guillaume home, I’ll be on shift,” he said. “I’ll pop in now and then, see how he’s . . . . coming to.”   

“Yes,” Endeavour said, rubbing his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts.

 

And the wind gods and the windmills. 

 

“Yes," he said again. "Let’s fix this passport problem.”

"Oh, yes, let's do that, shall we?" Bix said, and his full mouth quirked with the trace of a smile, again, his real one. “Right on it, old man.”

 

Endeavour sank back down onto the pillows. It had been a long time now, since it seemed natural enough to refer to himself and to Bix in the first-person plural. Bix knew what he meant. It should be clear enough that  _he_  wasn't in a fit state right now, to get them back to France.  

Well. Let him have his little joke. Endeavour was too exhausted to think of a rejoinder.

“If I get home, I’m never leaving it again,” Endeavour sighed.

“Uh-huh,” Bixby said, as if he didn’t believe him, even though Endeavour meant it with all of his heart. He was worn out, he was tired and heavy and slow.

But at least he didn’t feel trapped by that terrible heaviness, that terrifying feeling that he had had before the world fell away, as if he was sinking down down into himself, as if he were some sort of dark and bottomless chasm, imploding inwards like a circle in a wheel.

 

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, then?  _Are_  you feeling better?” Bix asked. 

“Yes,” Endeavour said. “I feel now that if I really needed to leave, I could go.”

“But you aren’t going to leave. You’re going to wait here, yes?”   

“Yes,” Endeavour said. “I know that. I'll wait. I'll wait for you to get the passport. And then we can go. I just meant if there was a fire. Or if someone were to come in here, I wouldn’t be trapped in a corner.” 

“No one is going to come in here, all right?” Bixby said. “Just DeBryn. Or maybe Thursday later. All right?’

“All right,” Endeavour said.

*****************

He closed his eyes, and it felt good to rest, to float, but not be trapped; the weight that felt as if it was crushing him, making his limbs and eyes so heavy that the world eventually went black, felt to be slowly lifting. It would be fine, then. Max was somewhere about and Bix was taking care of Esme and Guillaume, so there was nothing to fear. What's more, Bix would be kept busy, and this was a good thing, it seemed. Although he could not say just why. 

 

 

Then, there was a shadow passing over him, a darkness blocking the glare of the unforgiving hospital lights.

And he wanted to open his eyes, and he felt a surge of relief when he found that he  _could_  open his eyes. It was best to stay on watch. 

 

“Morse?”

 

The shadows moved into the doorway so that they were not just silhouettes, but rather Strange and Fancy. 

“Oh. Hello," Endeavour said. 

“How are you, matey? We heard you were laid up. So we brought you something," Strange said. 

Strange handed him a paper bag containing something thin and flat. Endeavour sat up slowly and took the parcel, sliding the item out. It was clear that it was a record, but he couldn’t quite focus on the words on the cover.

He narrowed his eyes, but the letters danced and twisted before him.

"Swinging with the Classics?" he managed, at last. 

“It’s all your favorites, brought right up to date,” Strange explained.

“Oh,” Endeavour said. “You shouldn’t have.”

 

“We can’t ask him now. He’s seems like he’s . . .” Fancy widened his eyes in a daffy sort of way. 

 

“Like I’m  _what_?” Endeavour asked, sharply.

 

“He might have some ideas," Strange began. "He’s been working quite a bit with Thursday and Box. He might have heard Box say something, something that didn’t make sense at the time, but now . . . .”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t Box,” Fancy said, cutting him off. “I would have known if it was him, straight off. All that trouble we had with him, back at Cowley?"

 

Endeavour was annoyed; he didn't at all appreciate Fancy and Strange carrying on their own private conversation, with him sitting right there, talking about him, as if in the third person, as if he still wasn’t sharper than the both of them put together.

" _We all know you’re smart_ ," Miss Thursday had said.  _"You don’t have to prove it."_ But Endeavour knew that he certainly did. 

 

“Box may have checked the gun into evidence, but anyone could have checked it out,” Fancy was saying.

 

Oh. And he still had those keys.

 

“That’s true enough,” Endeavour said.

Fancy and Strange looked at him in surprise.

“ _What’s_  true enough?” Strange asked. 

“It’s easy to get things out of evidence. I got my bag out of evidence last summer. And I took Adam Drake’s keys. Well. They weren’t Adam Drake’s keys, but Gabriel Van Horne’s keys, but . . .”

 

Strange was turning as white as the hospital wall, but Fancy was laughing.

“You’re supposed to be making Strange’s career, Morse, not breaking it,” Fancy said. 

“Where are they? The keys?” Strange asked.

“They’re in my bag. I’ve been trying to figure out how to smuggle them back, but I haven’t had the chance. There’s been wind gods and windmills and all sorts,” Endeavour said. 

 

He heard a rummaging then, behind a small, folding door, a rustling like the crackle of a paper bag. And then the familiar sound of the clasps being undone on his own leather satchel, the one Bix had brought him once from Italy. Then a jangling sound, like the thick chiming of a ring of keys, just like that song he couldn't get out of his head. 

 

 _Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head_  
_Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that you said?_  
_Lovers walking along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand_  
_Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?_

 

“Matey? I’m taking these, all right?” Strange said, holding up a set keys. 

"Yes," Endeavour said. It was a weight off of his chest, knowing someone was taking them, checking them back into evidence. Or maybe it was just that his breathing was becoming easier.

 “Actually,” Endeavour said, “Would you bring me that blue notebook, the one in my bag?”

Strange returned to the small folding door, rummaged about, and emerged again. “Is this the one you wanted?” he asked, handing him his notebook.

“Yes. Thanks,” Endeavour said.

He took it and leaned back and closed his eyes, resting the notebook on his chest. Now he would have the answers. When he read over his notes, it would be sure to jolt his memory. 

But first, he would close his eyes, just for a few minutes. 

 

 *********************

When he opened his eyes again, Mr. Bright was there.

"Sir?" Morse asked, perplexed.

"Morse. Good heavens. How are you? You look as if you've been through the wars."

"I'm all right. How are you, sir?"

"Fine. Fine.”

Then, he seemed to hesitate.

“Is something on your mind, sir?” Endeavour asked.

“Well. I was hoping, actually, to ask for a bit of advice. The thing of it is, I've been offered a job."

"Oh?" Endeavour asked.

"As a newscaster by the local television station. And I'm a bit up in the air about it." 

"Up in the air about going on the air," Endeavour said, meditatively. “Hmmmmm.”

 

Mr. Bright frowned slightly. "Are you quite sure you're all right? Morse?”

"Yes," Endeavour said.

 

It wasn't a bad idea; retirement didn't quite suit Mr. Bright. And he'd be a journalist of sorts, wouldn't he? Shining a light on the truth?

Although Mr. Bright was a very private man. It would mean setting out on an entirely new path. But then again . . . 

 

"But the answer is simple, sir. You've already said it yourself." 

"Said what?" 

"If the pelican can, so can you." 

Mr. Bright looked slightly stunned. And then he smiled. "Quite right. Quite right," he said. 

 *****

Endeavour closed his eyes, and, suddenly, Mr. Bright was gone.

And then Max was there, telling him to breathe. And that's all there was to it, wasn't it? One only had to remember to breathe.

If the pelican can, so can you. 

 

Max's face was inches from his, and Endeavour felt a cold shiver, like a press of metal over his heart, settling over him. And suddenly he realized just how melancholy Max had seemed of late, how Max had cast his face over his beautiful and wayward garden in the falling summer light. How he had seemed to sigh a bit as he had said, "Something has to be lovely."

 

"Are you happy, Max?" Endeavour asked.

"I've been called up to take a double shift, Morse. Surely, with your powers of deduction, you can figure the answer to that question out yourself.” 

"No," Endeavour said. "I mean. Are you happy?"

 

Max was looking at him with a faint line of concern between his brows. And with a pall of loneliness in his eyes. Endeavour knew well that look. He had seen it in the mirror. After he and Susan had stood on the bridge, and . . .

 

"What happened to him?" Endeavour asked.  "That man?"

Max looked quickly to the door. "What man?" Max asked, sharply. "Has someone been in here? Morse?" 

"No," Endeavour said. "I mean that man who scared me half to death last summer, when I fell asleep at your house." 

Max huffed a laugh. "Oh," he said. "Do you mean my invited guest, who startled you when you had fallen asleep in my chair, after breaking into the place?" 

Endeavour scowled. That didn't sound quite right, either. But . . . . well. All right, then. If that's how he wanted to interpret it. 

"Yes," he said. 

Max sighed. "We just didn't seem to see eye to eye on things," he said. "Simple as that." 

 

Well. That was certainly a reason that was no reason. He and Bixby didn't see eye to eye on much of _anything_. Even on the largest of questions. He was quite sure, for example, that Bixby even believed in God. 

But Endeavour must have said the words out loud, because Max said, "Some people do, Morse." 

 

Max made an adjustment to one on the bags on the IV stand and said paused for a moment.

“Let's just say the old magic simply wasn't there, hmmmmm?"

 

But he said it so sadly that Endeavour did not believe him. 

 

Endeavour leaned back on the pillows. "There is no magic," he said heavily. "Only love. The rest is only smoke and mirrors." 

Max took one of the IV bags down off the rack. "Well, I think we've weaned you off this stuff enough to cut you off entirely. And none too soon, I might add." 

But he looked thoughtful all the same. 

And then Endeavour closed his eyes again, and he was floating. 

*********

 

It seemed almost as if he had been locked in a dream within dream. Endeavour opened his eyes, and the world was white and crisp. He sat up, and everything was clear, as clear as a pane of polished glass.

It was as if he had been kicking under the water and had bobbed to the sun-bright surface with a wild gasp of air.

He sat up and found his notebook, held loosely in his hand, resting on his chest.

Strange.

Strange had given it to him.

He looked about the room, wonderingly, trying to make sense of a montage of memories. Then, there were footsteps in the hall, and a nurse came into the room, carrying a tray.

"Oh, you’re awake, are you?” she said, gliding into the room and setting a tray of tea and toast and an egg and a tangerine before him. It looked like breakfast.

She went over to the small window and briskly opened a heavy curtain, so that the room was flooded with bright light.

Endeavour blinked and raised a hand, temporarily blinded.

 

Definitely morning.

 

“Sorry,” he said. “But.... what day is it?” 

“Thursday,” she said.

 

Today was Thursday.

White shirt and red tie.

Ham and tomato.

Somewhere, he has missed an entire day.

 

“Would you like any salt?” the nurse asked.

“Salt?” Endeavour replied.

“For your eggs?” 

“No, thank you.” 

 

_Salt._

 

“All right, then,” the nurse said. “Tuck in. I’ll be back when you’re done, to collect your tray.”

And then she went back out to her rolling cart in the hall.

 

_Salt._

It was a word he remembered writing in his notebook in bold print at the bottom of the last page.

 

He set the tray aside and leaned back against the pillows, taking up his notebook. He opened it and flipped through page after page. . . and it all made sense. He remembered all, the dead ends and the true leads . . . and it all came down to McGyffin and Burkitt. Osbert Page and the wind gods and the wood chisel and the tower collapse and the Gower peninsula. 

It all came down to the one word, one he had circled and underlined.

 _Salt_.

It was all as clear as clear. And it all made sense—it all came down to that. 

 

Then, there were footsteps in the hall, ones much heavier than the nurse’s. Endeavour looked up with a jolt of fear; he felt, for one mad moment, that McGyffin could read his mind, that he knew that he understood all, that he had come back for him.

 

But there was no cause for alarm; it was only Thursday there, looking perplexed, even a bit disheartened, defeated.

 

"Sir?" Endeavour asked. 

"Just came off shift," Thursday said. He turned his head, considering him, and then said, slowly, “The guv’nor said something about an unknown at Cranmer House. Said all the old Cowley firm knew about it."

He paused and added, “I don’t.”

 

Endeavour's heart sank. Well could he empathize—he knew just what it felt like, to be dismissed out of hand.

But, he could certainly understand why Max and Strange, why Trewlove and Fancy, might not have confided in him the true nature of the death of Hollis Binks.

 

Certainly, though, Thursday could not be _so_ far gone. He had said he had given those envelopes back. If Endeavour could not trust Thursday, who could he trust, really?  

And, after all, it was Thursday who first trusted him, years ago. 

 

_"Listen to this, sir. The lad's been having a dig around the Tremlett case."_

 

Endeavour took a deep breath. Now that he had all the pieces together, he might as well get them out.

 

"I know who killed Osbert Page. And the unknown. And, more to the point, I know why."

Thursday looked at him sharply and sank into the plastic chair, making it clear he was interested, that he wanted to hear more. 

 

"Osbert Page had been looking into the disappearance of a fellow rambler. A man called Hollis Binks. You remember the initials we found in his flat—on the map?" Endeavour asked.

"HB," Thursday replied. "But who is Binks?”

"Binks was the borough surveyor. His body was recovered in the foundations of Cranmer House. He's the unknown Box must have mentioned. He was drowned, buried in the concrete when it was built." 

"Christ," Thursday said. And then, sharply, "Why wasn’t I told?" 

 

Endeavour could think of all sorts of reasons that Max might not tell Thursday—most likely the same reasons that led he himself to Thursday’s door to pelt him with fistfuls of francs.

 

"Well," Endeavour said, diplomatically. "I’m telling you now." 

He paused and said, "I think Binks’ death and Page’s death are both related to what happened at Cranmer House. Cranmer House was built by McGyffin Construction, using concrete which should have contained high-quality sand from Four Winds Aggregate out at Wicklesham. But McGyffin also owns another place, out on the Gower Coast."

"The Gower. That’s where Page wrote HB on the map."

"Hmmmm," Endeavour said. "I think he was adulterating the concrete with unwashed sea sand from the Gower Coast."

"So?"

"So. Salt. The sodium in the sea sand-concrete mix would have corroded the iron rebars running through Cramner House, weakening the entire structure. Concrete cancer, they call it. That’s why the tower collapsed. I think they were using sub-standard material and charging full price, pocketing the difference."

"So," Thursday said, "Binks worked out that McGyffin was running a scam?"

"Yes, him and his former boss, Councilor Burkitt," Endeavour said. "Binks wrote to Professor Burrowes, with a question about types of soil, before he died. I think he was getting close to the truth of what they were doing, suspected that they were switching the materials." 

"If Page was worried about Binks, why didn’t he come to us, report him missing?" Thursday asked. 

"Maybe he was afraid," Endeavour said. 

"Of what?" 

"Of us," Endeavour said, simply. "If a senior councilor is involved, then who knows how far it goes?"

 

Thursday took a sharp breath and stood up, abruptly.  "Say you’re right. People like that, it only goes one way."

"What are you saying?" Endeavor asked. 

"It’s a hiding to nothing. You’ve got to let it drop."

 Endeavour let out a cry of protest.  "Let it _drop?_ Who are you trying to protect? Box?"

"That’s what you think?”

"It wasn’t, but maybe I was wrong, and everyone else was right."

"About what?" Thursday asked sharply. 

"About _you_. When I first saw you this summer, out at the car crash at Lake Silence, I hardly recognized you."

 

Thursday's lined face fell, then, and with it, the heat went out of his voice.

“You’ve always given me too much credit,” he said. “I’m not what you think. You want another Blenheim Vale? You’ve got to let it go."

"I can’t."

“That’s an order! You’re to do nothing, understand? Just get on that plane and get back to France.”

And he stormed out of the room. 

 

It seemed odd that the room was so filled with white and the sun, because Endeavour felt as if the light had gone out of him.

 

He didn't know what had happened to Thursday. Had he crossed the line? Wanting just to cover this up, to let it go, to help out his newfound friends, the ones he and Bix had seen him laughing with at the pub?

But Thursday had told him that he had given those envelopes back.

 

Endeavour looked blankly up at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his mind, following its circles, trying to fill in the blanks. 

 

_Who are you trying to protect? Box?_

_That's what you think?_

 

And then the answer came to him. Thursday's answer was not a rhetorical question. His true answer was there, buried in the depths of the sentence. 

 

_Who are you trying to protect? Box?_

_You_.

 

“Let it drop," Thursday's voice boomed again, across the landscape of his thoughts, a landscape that was beginning to resemble the quarry.

"I can't," Endeavour had said. 

 

"I can't," Endeavour said, staring up at the white hospital ceiling. 

He just couldn't “let it drop.” He had to try.

To do otherwise, would go against his very name. 

 

And he had worked too hard to find his peace with being called Endeavour, to turn away, to give up now.

********* 

"Consider yourself fortunate, Morse,” Max said. “You’ve been granted a reprieve.”

“What?” Endeavour asked.

“You’re going home,” Max said.

“Really?” Endeavour asked, sitting up.

Bixby was there, standing in the doorway. “Ready for the off, old man?”

“I can go? Honestly?” Endeavour asked. 

“A bit early, perhaps, but you’re responding well to the antibiotics. You can complete the course orally. Stop by at the chemist downstairs to pick up your prescriptions. And be sure to finish them all, or you’ll end up right back here," Max said. 

“All right,” Endeavour said. At that point, he would agree to anything, so keen was he to go.

“And be sure to drink plenty of fluids. And rest. Don’t overexert yourself,” Max said, filling out columns in his chart.

“I wont,” Endeavour said. “If I ever get home, I’m never leaving it again.”

 

**************

 

After Max left the hospital at an abysmally late hour, he stopped by the mortuary. He couldn’t help but wonder if any of the forensics reports he had ordered had finally come in.

He went over to the counter, and there they were, with the day’s post, waiting for him.

As he opened the first envelope, he heard a rumble of footsteps.

Too many footsteps.

This was no detective inspector, wanting to chat over a case. The footsteps carried a distinct note of threat as they rushed along, rumbling like the roll of thunder.

 

Oh, hell. Morse, perhaps, had had a point all along.

Who knew how far up this thing went?

 

Max’s hand went immediately to the receiver of the heavy black telephone on the worktop. He would have time for only one phone call. He could not waste it.

 

So, he dialed the one person who he was certain would be there to pick up.

The person who had assured him that, once he was at home, he was planning on never leaving it again.

 

After three rings, he picked up.

“Morse,” he said.

“Morse,” Max said, “I might not have much time to talk, but . . .”

And then a heavy pair of hands seized him by the shoulders and threw him to the tiled floor.

 

**********

 

“Max?” Endeavour cried. But Max was gone; there was only a clattering and a crash and a clank of metal, and then another resounding crash, like the sound of the telephone hitting the mortuary’s hard white tile floor.

And then there was nothing.

“Max?” Endeavour cried again.

 

Oh, hell, he had been right all along.

Max had gone ahead with his forensics reports and who knew what all. And they suspected, they somehow knew that Max was getting closer to the truth.

Did they even have someone working in forensics on their payroll?

 

_Dr. DeBryn is sending in samples from the Bodleian and the quarry. We had better do something before he discovers for certain that they are a match._

_Accidents happen._

 

But Endeavour knew just where they would take him.

For a moment, he panicked. What was he supposed to do? How many of them might be down there, with Max, at the quarry? Many, he suspected. How could he take them all on? He didn’t even have a gun.

Although Bixby must have one _somewhere_ , surely. All of that talk about “everyone who ever made a deal made an enemy” and so forth?

But Bixby was not at home to ask. He had taken Esme and Guillaume up to the French embassy in London, to pick up Guillaume’s new passport.

Endeavour tore up the stairs to their bedroom. There was a loose floorboard that he knew of, where he had once seen Bixby depositing a few things, a few weeks back, after the last quiz night. Perhaps he might find one there.

He flew into the room and fell to the floor on his knees, lifting the floorboards up, reaching inside for anything that might help—but all that he found were three passports—two British, one American, and a bundle of cash, pounds and dollars. This must be their plan B, then.

At any other time, Endeavour might find Josiah Taylor’s American passport to be all very interesting, but now, it was useless and less than useless, and he was wasting time.

He ran back down the stairs, but already, he was short of breath. By god, he was useless. He would need help. With Max’s life in danger, there was no time to stand on ceremony, no time to consider his pride.

He dialed a long familiar number and prayed that someone would answer.

“Thursday residence,” Win Thursday said.

“Mrs. Thursday? It’s Morse. Is Thursday at home?”

“No, love,” she said. “He just went down to the chip shop. He should be back in a moment. I’ll tell him you called if he comes in before I go.”

 

What? What if she left before he returned? He had no time to call anyone else. He had to impart to her how important this was, and, before he knew it, he was shouting into the receiver.

 

“No! Don’t go! You have to tell him! Tell him they have Dr. DeBryn. Tell him I’ve gone out to Wickelsham Quarry. Tell him to call Fancy and Strange and Trewlove. Every officer he can trust. Will you? Please?”

“Morse? Are you all right?”

“No! No, I’m not! I have to go. Will you please tell him? Please!”

“Of course,” she said, at once. “I’ll go down the road and find him. But I don’t think you...” 

“Thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Thursday,” Endeavour cut in. And then he slammed down the receiver.

 

The cavalry would be coming, but it might be delayed. He would have to act on his own in the meanwhile, hold them off until Thursday could assemble the old Cowley firm. 

 

But he was a poet now, not a police officer. What was he supposed to do?

 

Attack McGyffin and his thugs with his typewriter?

 

And as he looked up from where his hand remained on the telephone receiver, his eyes fell upon it, sitting squarely in the middle of his desk.

Well, it was heavy enough, one supposed.

He picked it up, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door.

 

 


	14. "I've loved you too long to stop now"

Endeavour slammed the door of his Jag shut and began to walk down the dismal and puddle-strewn path, beneath the metal underbelly of the quarry’s hulking conveyer belt, looking for signs of Max, looking for signs of anyone.

 

He had always thought the cries of a crow in winter’s early twilight to be the most forlorn sound in the world. But now he felt that that distinction should go to the sound of his own footsteps—crunching through the gravel like rip after carless rip in the fabric of the heavy summer evening silence. Each step sounded like something lost, something hopeless. Each step took him further away from the life he knew. 

 

It seemed like it all might happen again as it had happened before: All was as quiet as it had been on the night that he had crept through the back door of Blenheim Vale, looking for Tommy Cork, looking for Thursday, the night that took him away from everything he had ever known—his last night as a police officer, as Detective Constable Morse.

Endeavour felt a coldness fall over his heart, a pain in his chest, as if he couldn't breathe properly, as if he was already disappearing, becoming only a fragment, becoming only one-third of a person. 

 

But, there was nothing else for it, but to keep walking. 

 

He came out at the end of an open tunnel of scaffolding, and there they were, standing five abreast—McGyffin, three of his henchmen, and . . .  . .

 

“Surprised?” Jago said. “You couldn’t see me for Box.”

 

Endeavour stood for a moment, alone in the fading light, considering them. There were five of them and one of him and not many places to run.

 

He turned and looked over his shoulder, taking in the barren and muddy wasteland of a quarry. Where was Max? Endeavour had been so certain that he would be here, somewhere. And where was Thursday? Would he come, as Endeavour had hoped, as he had believed he would?

Or had Thursday crossed the line, after all, past the point of no return?

 

Perhaps no one was coming this time. Not even Thursday. 

 

It was a thought as lonely as the sound of his solitary footfalls had been, as lonely as the cry of a crow resounding in a white winter sky.

 

“No one is coming,” Jago pronounced, as Endeavour looked to the road behind him. And he was Orpheus. He was DC Morse. And his old life was fading away from him. 

 

“It’s how we came into the world," Jago said. "You. Me. All of us. We’re born and we die alone.”

 

Endeavour swallowed. Perhaps Jago was right. Perhaps that had always been his destiny, just as he had once thought —that he would die alone in the final frame.

 

Jago smiled, a smile that did not soften the hardness of his narrowed eyes, and then he pulled a gun from his coat. 

 

Endeavour looked into the barrel of it, and it seemed to him as a tunnel, one that might swallow him whole, leaving not even his bones behind.

How long would it take to find him?  It had taken a year before anyone had found Hollis Binks.

Would Bix think he had simply left him? The case had seemed to make things strained between them, leaving each to say that the other wasn’t a cracker, each to push the other away from dealing with the facts before them.

 

But Endeavour had meant well. He had meant only to spare Bix from.... well, precisely this.

 

 _Something_ has to be lovely.

 

Endeavour wished now, though, that he had taken the time to write a note, even one as short as the one he had written when he had been held by those art thieves in Nancy.

 

_Forgive my cross words, Love E._

 

He had simply been out of time.

He was out of time.

 

But then, Endeavour heard it, so faintly he thought it might just be a flurry of his imagination, just the windmills of his mind—the faint hum of a car, pulling up the path behind him.

He did not dare to turn around, didn’t dare to turn his back on Jago to see who it was—not now, not now that Jago was aiming a gun directly at his heart. He could only hope it was the calvary come at last, and not more of Jago’s henchmen. 

 

Behind him, there were four heavy slams of a car door.  

Four of them: whoever it was—there were four. They would either even the odds, making it five against five. Or, just the opposite—making it nine against one. 

 

“All right, Morse?” Thursday called. 

 

Endeavour didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he heard that low and resonant voice, as familiar as the back of his own hand, as familiar as a worn hat sitting on the edge of a worn desk and the scent of pipe tobacco. He felt a surge of relief wash over him, leaving him almost to feel unsteady on his feet.

Thursday came and stood alongside of him. And Strange. And then Fancy. And then Mr. Bright. And now there were the five of them, five against five.

Although, it was true, Jago already had his gun on them . . . .

 

“You picked the wrong team, brother,” McGyffin called, as Strange came forward.

Strange planted his feet firmly in the gravel beneath him and lifted his chin challengingly. “We’re City men, first and last,” he replied. “We mind our own.”

 

Endeavour was not alone, and it was not another Blenheim Vale. He wouldn't let it be. They would all make their way through this.

All of them.

 

“Where’s DeBryn?” Endeavour called.  “Alive?”

“Last time I looked,” Jago said. He jerked his head toward one of his men, who, following his unspoken order, walked over to a truck and threw the back open. 

 

Max was there, bound and gagged, lying in the bed of the truck, struggling to look up at them, bloodied, but alive.

They had even taken his glasses, the bastards, and this caused Endeavour a flicker of worry: he wondered if Max had felt in a fog without them, the way he, Endeavour, had felt in hospital. He wondered if once Max got home, if he would feel the way he so often did—as if he would never want to leave it again. 

 

“It’s all right, Doctor,” Endeavour called out to him. “We’ll have you home safe soon.”

“That’s not how this goes. You must have known that,” McGyffin said.

“You can’t believe you’ll get away with the murder of two civilians, three officers and a Home Office pathologist,” Mr. Bright said.  

“They plan to hang the crimes on us, sir,” Endeavour said.

 

Of course, they did. That's what they had done before, after all. 

 

Jago laughed then, as if Endeavour had cracked the code. But as Jago's eyes squinted with the effort of forcing his face into a sharp-edged smile, Fancy startled.

 

“It was you,” Fancy said.

 

Jago’s smile faded.

 

“It was you. That night. At the Moonlight Rooms. You killed Nero. Took over his whole business. Didn’t you? The protection, the drugs, everything,” Fancy said.

 

It was Jago. It had always been Jago. 

And Endeavour should have known—he had been so close to the truth, he had even said it out loud, in a pub, weeks ago. 

 

_"I know I’d recognize him if I saw him. Mask or no mask," Fancy said._

_“How?” Trewlove asked._

_"His eyes. He had hard, narrow, shifty eyes.” Fancy squinted, trying to look menacing, but with his young, carefree face, he succeeeded in looking about as threatening as a cartoon villain._

_“I’ll tell you who has some shifty, narrow little eyes,” Endeavour said._

_“Who?” Fancy asked._

_“DS Jago,” Endeavour said. “Box’s sidekick.”_

Endeavour stood, stunned by the realization of it all, at how he had accidentally landed on the truth, but Thursday looked grim, as if he might have suspected all along.

 

“Who better than a copper to know every filthy racket in the city?” Thursday said, his voice curling in disgust.  

“How many times you seen them get away with it, Fred?  It’s a stacked deck,” Jago replied. 

“The truth _will_ come out,” Mr. Bright proclaimed.

“The truth will be what I put in my report,” Jago countered.

 

And it was all at an impasse. They were standing there, and they might very well stand forever, with Jago’s gun trained directly on them, looking into that dark and endless barrel like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel on its own . . .   

  
_Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone_  
_Like a door that keeps revolving in a half forgotten dream_  
_Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream_  
_Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face...._

And the hands of time slowed, not sweeping but slumbering.

 

Someone had to do something, something to tip the balance, to blow a puff of air on Jago’s house of cards, something to give them a fighting chance. 

 

And then Endeavour broke his cardinal rule.

He turned his back on them.

He turned and walked slowly away.

He could feel them, all the eyes, watching him, wondering what the hell he was doing. He could feel Jago, with the gun trained on his back, squinting after him in contempt, Thursday looking at him in bewilderment, Fancy watching in confusion.

That was fine, then, as Bixby was so fond of saying.

It had always worked to his advantage, being underestimated, retaining that element of surprise. There were times it had been all he had working for him, his only salvation.

 

“Where do you think you’re going, Morse? Do you think you’re just going to skip along home?” Jago scoffed. 

 

 

Endeavour didn’t answer. He moved slowly and calmly, the way you might before an angry dog.  Quietly, he opened the passenger side door of his Jag, and pulled out his cumbersome typewriter, shuffling it under his forearms to balance its weight. Then he carried it back over to where he had stood, considering the men in the lineup.

 

Jago and his men broke into harsh barks of laughter that echoed amidst the trees and calls of gulls.

 

“What are you going to do? Challenge us to a writing contest?” Jago asked. “Attack us with a metaphor?”

“Maybe it’s a poet’s version of dying with your boots on,” McGyffin sniggered.

Surely it seemed an eccentric thing to do, something well in keeping with what Jago thought of him—inscrutable, erratic . . .  and just plain daft.

 

Endeavour kept his face utterly expressionless as he raised his eyes to the five men in the line, assessing them one by one.

McGyffin was the strongest of the lot. And possibly the most dangerous. Endeavour thought he had looked from the very beginning as if he’d like nothing better than to pound him into the dirt. The man was enormous; he was used to being the top predator, and, as such, his reactions were likely to be slow.

 

Endeavour had one good swing, and he had to be fast.

He stood for a long moment before them. And then, in one deft moment, he hauled off and threw the typewriter, directly at McGyffin’s rather large head.

It crashed against the side of the man’s skull with a sickening crunch of a thud, and McGyffin fell hard to the ground. 

 

And then, all hell broke loose.

The act had created just the chaos that Endeavour had hoped for: Not only had it removed McGyffin from the equation, but the whole incident had taken Jago so much by surprise that he turned and looked at McGyffin’s falling form, lowering his gun as he did so, giving Fancy, Thursday, Mr. Bright and Strange the chance to draw arms.

Jago sensed the sudden movement and whipped back around, raising his gun.

There was a stillness, then, that settled over the scene. They were like a collection of chessboard pieces, awaiting the next move. There were four of them now, with guns drawn, but of those four, not one was willing to take a shot if it meant risking that one of the others might get hit.

Jago quirked an appreciative smile, but then cocked his gun with a decisive click.

“Well, well, well, Morse. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you,” he said.

 

And then Jago looked up and froze.

 

Just then, there was a thick hum of engines like a swarm of bees and a harsh, rolling crunch of gravel: a fleet of news crew vans was trundling down the path.

“My new colleagues,” Mr. Bright said. “You may put your version of the truth in your report, but the camera never lies.”

Jago and his three henchmen looked in open-mouthed disbelief for a moment, before slowly backing away. 

 

“Sod this,” Jago said. “Let’s go.”

And then they turned and ran, off in four different directions, spreading like a fan across the gravel and the puddles and the dirt and the mud, disappearing into either the trees or into the bowels of the quarry works.

Endeavour ran to the truck where Max was held, but then there was a volley of three gunshots sprayed down around his feet, like thick raindrops made of metal, and he tripped backwards, dodging them.

He looked up to see Jago, who had turned around, regarding him with a sinister smirk on his face. He raised his gun, but then Fancy was sprinting after him, and Jago turned again to flee the scene.

 

At least they were leading them all away from Max; they would have to come back for him after they had dealt with Jago and his heavies, that was all.

 

For a moment, Endeavour wasn't sure where to go. Strange and Thursday were already climbing a tower, chasing after two of Jago’s men, and Mr. Bright was moving with surprising speed into the woods, after another.

They seemed, by unspoken agreement, to be leaving Jago to Fancy. As if they thought he was Fancy's score to settle. 

Endeavour wasn't sure if he saw the wisdom of this, but . . . 

"Morse," Fancy called, with a jerk of his head. 

. . . . but at least Fancy seemed to remember that Endeavour didn't have a gun—that he had, in fact, discharged his only weapon, and understood that he might like to stick with someone who _did_ have one. 

Endeavour sprinted after Fancy, who, in turn, sped off once more in pursuit of Jago. 

 

Jago ran through a door and into the tower of the twisting conveyer belt—and Fancy and Endeavour followed after.

 

And then they lost him, in the darkness.

 

Endeavour and Fancy made their way through corridor after corridor as silently as they could, but it was difficult. The tunnel-like structure was made less of metal than of rust, and every footfall echoed, every hinge screeched like a demon of hell—it was all like a ring of Dante's Inferno.

After what felt like an age, they came around a corner, out of the shadows.

And there was Jago.

Holding a gun aimed directly at Thursday, who had surrendered his weapon, and who stood with his arms raised.  

 

“Drop the gun. Now,” Fancy said.

His voice sounded different somehow, ringing with an authority and a clarity with which Endeavour had never heard Fancy speak. 

 

“You wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, would you, Fancy?" Jago taunted. 

“Like you took that cheap shot at me?" Fancy replied.

"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Jago said. 

"Drug money," Thursday said, his fierce dark eyes filled with contempt.

Jago shrugged. 

 

"Put it down," Thursday snarled.

 

And then there was a creak at the door, and a greater flood of light, as someone else came into the small space.

It was Box. 

 

Fancy spun and turned the gun on him.

 

And now, Fancy had a gun aimed at Box, and Jago at Thursday. Again, it felt as if they were pieces on a chessboard, with few good moves to make. 

 

“Well, well, well, guv'nor," Jago hummed. "Found some bottle at last." 

 

But, suddenly, Endeavour wasn't so sure. There was something different in Box's face, something lost, as lost as Endeavour's own footfalls had sounded, crunching through the gravel. As if he, too, was a man who was leaving his old life behind. 

“We can all still walk out of here alive,” Endeavour said.

“No, we can’t," Box said, and he began to raise his gun. 

 

Before Endeavour knew what was happening, Box aimed his gun directly at Jago. Jago widened his eyes, paling with shock.

And then Box fired.

But something was wrong; the gun in his hand resounded with a dull click rather than a resounding bang, as the mechanism jammed.

 

Jago’s stunned face immediately broke into a slow and cautious and then contemptuous smile, and then he laughed.

"Well. How appropriate. There's a nice bit of symbolism for you, Morse.  Impotent to the last, aren't you Ronnie? Who’s the worst shot on the force now?”

 

And they were back to the same impasse: Fancy had arms drawn and so did Jago; it would all be a gamble then, as to who would pull the trigger first.

 

And then there was a shadow on the stairs behind Jago, a shadow of someone waking slowly down the metal spiraling steps. A shadow of someone whose footfalls in the echoing chamber seemed almost imperceptible, impossibly light.

If it was one of the Cowley firm, the unseen gunman might take Jago off his guard.

If it was one of Jago’s men, their run was surely over. 

 

Endeavour looked over Jago's shoulder, watching the approaching shadow, wide-eyed with horror, willing Fancy and Box and Thursday to look up, to see what might be coming.

 

“Oh, Morse,” Jago said. “ _That_ is the oldest trick in the book. Trying to make me turn and look, are you?”

 

He snorted softly and looked to Box. “Ronnie. How fitting that you would throw your lot in with these ponces. Everyone says the City boys are the biggest bloody bunch of misfits in all of Oxford."

 

And then Jago’s smile froze, and he faltered, as a cold gun was pressed firmly against the back of his head.

 

“Oh?” Trewlove said, standing behind him, cocking the trigger with a steady click.

“And what do they say about the City girls?” she asked. 

 

****** 

Thursday, Trewlove and Fancy led Jago and McGyffin to one of the police cars, where Mr. Bright and Strange stood waiting with the three other thugs, who had already been handcuffed. 

"It's a good thing WPC Trewlove brought an extra car, yes?" Mr. Bright called. "We need the space." 

 

Endeavour, meanwhile, sprinted over to the abandoned truck and climbed into the back, to where Max lay bound, and, as gently as he could, he untied the gag from around his mouth. 

"Are you all right?" Endeavour asked. 

"I'm just splendid," Max said. 

 

Well. His sarcasm, at least, certainly wasn't broken. 

 

Endeavour's fingers worked quickly then, working on the knots around Max's wrists. Once the ropes fell away, Max pushed himself up, moving and flexing his freed hands appreciatively. 

 

"Here," Endeavour said, handing him his glasses. "I found these, over by one of their cars." 

"Oh," Max said, pleasantly surprised by this small bit of luck. "Thank you, Morse.”

He went to put them on, but then paused, looking them over. 

"Cracked," he said. "Bugger."

 

Endeavour regarded him closely. It seemed incredible that he should be so matter-of-fact about it all. 

But that was Max.

Or a very good front.

Or both.

Max, he felt, sometimes was just that.

A very good front.

 

Endeavour smiled at him fondly and then turned away, his eyes falling on the wreckage of his typewriter, lying in the dirt.

"I expect my typewriter is ruined, too. It was my favorite," he mused. 

“I suppose it might be repaired," Max said.

"Do you really think so?”

“It's worth looking into, I suppose," Max said. "Otherwise you can honestly say, 'well done, good and faithful servant.' Please let it know I'm most grateful for its sacrifice." 

Endeavour quirked a hint of a smile. It was just like old times, the easy banter with Max at the end of a job. Thursday standing, hands in his pockets, as if it were just all in a day’s work. Strange bustling about, as if each arrest might be the one to get him a promotion.

 

But there was a piece of Endeavour, too, who felt a bit like an outsider looking in. He wasn't sure what else to do, now that it was all over: he didn't have the authority to arrest anyone, and he wasn't keen to get anywhere near the news vans and the cameras that were already trained on Strange, who was taking Jago in handcuffs to the back of one of the cars. 

 

Although, perhaps Turner would love the publicity. 

Or perhaps not. 

This certainly didn't seem like the way to cross the road. 

 

But at least he had _made_ it across. And Max had, too. It could have all ended so differently, with the wail of ambulance sirens, with one of their number lying dead, eyes staring up at a forlorn sky filled with metal scaffolding and smoke.

Endeavour sighed then, and something seemed to catch in his chest, starting him coughing, leaving him drained.

"I thought I told you not to exert yourself," Max said, dryly. 

"But . . . I had to . . . I...” Endeavour managed to choke out between coughs, only to notice, too late, a trace of a smile in Max's eyes.

"I think I can overlook it this once," Max said, and he thumped him soundly on the back.

"Better?" Max asked. 

"Yes," Endeavour said.

 

But suddenly, Endeavour had had enough of the day. It was as if he had been wearing someone else’s cheap car coat, an uncomfortably scratchy thing, and he was keen to get out of the rain and take it off again.

 

The only one who looked even more uncertain than he himself felt, in fact, was Box.

 

Box didn't seem to know quite where to stand. He had betrayed his former compatriots, but he wasn't a part of the old Cowley CID, either.

  

Thursday was walking over to them, then—his hat tilted perfectly in place despite the recent mêlée— his eyes cast towards the solitary figure of Box. 

“I can’t judge him,” he said, simply. “I took a wrong turn. He came good in the end.”

And maybe Thursday was right.

Perhaps all that matters is who we are in the end.

Perhaps that is who we really are.

********

Endeavour returned to Castle Gate with the others. It seemed fitting, somehow. And, anyway, he wanted to gather his box of things from his so-called office, which, he supposed, could go back to being a basement once more.

 

"And the record will reflect a drug ring smashed and a criminal conspiracy unmasked," Mr. Bright said. "And ACC Bottoms is set to take early retirement."

"What about Burrkit?" Strange asked.

"Turned Queen's," Thursday said.  

"I don't think that's going to work out for him," Fancy said.  

"How so?" Strange asked. 

 

Fancy picked up a copy of the Oxford Mail from off a nearby desk and held it up, displaying the headline.

_Contractor records implicate Councilor Burkitt in Tower Collapse._

"Blimey," Strange said. "I tried going all through those. Who got a hold of that information?"

 

Endeavour shook his head ruefully. There was only one person he knew who had both the connections to get at such records, and the nerve to turn them over to the press.

 

"Blast," Mr. Bright said.

Everyone looked to him in surprise. It was good news, surely, that Burkitt would be held responsible for the part the had played in the tragedy, in the awful bargain they had all made, trading people’s lives in for money. 

 

"Print news has gotten the scoop on us," Mr. Bright explained. 

Endeavor smiled. “Sorry, sir" he said. "Bix didn't know you were in the business." 

"What's that, Morse?" 

"Nothing, sir." 

 

Mr. Bright looked at him them, beaming, with a clear light in his eye, which Endeavour recognized faintly as pride.

He was proud of him, Endeavour realized and of himself, too; they were two civilians, now, wrapping up the ends of their last case.

"Ah," Mr. Bright said, succinctly. "Morse. "Very well."

Endeavour nodded. "Sir."  

********

It didn't take long to pack the few things that Endeavour had in his office. He put the things into a cardboard box, and it was odd: it was as if he had never been there. 

But it was all right. 

He had been and always would be a good detective. 

He walked up the short flight of steps, past the vending machines, and into the main office, where Thursday stood waiting for him. 

"All right, Morse?" Thursday asked. 

"Yes," Endeavour said, shifting the balance of the box. "I didn't bring much."  

Thursday huffed a laugh. "Just enough, I guess."

 

Just then, Strange looked up, the telephone receiver pressed against his chest. 

"Got Mrs. Thursday on the blower. I said you’re fine, but she doesn’t sound best pleased. Wants to know what time you’re coming home," Strange said. 

"Tell her he’ll be home shortly," Endeavour called. 

"Go on," Endeavour said. "I can manage."

"I know you can," Thursday nodded. And then he paused for a moment, remaining where he was.

 

"If I don't see you before your flight," he added, putting out his hand. 

But Endeavour simply looked at his outstretched palm, keeping his own hands firmly around the cardboard box he carried. 

"Handshakes are for goodbyes, sir," Endeavour said. 

Thursday stood and considered him.  "Fine, then. Mind how you go." 

"Sir," Endeavour said.

And Thursday swept from the office, his shoulders broad beneath his great coat, seeming taller than he had on that day at the beginning of the summer, when he had stepped over to the cordon at the scene of the car crash at Lake Silence. 

***************

Thursday came in through the front door and hung his hat on the one of the hooks on the stand in the narrow hallway. It had seemed an age since he had left. He had wondered, as he had closed the door behind him, if he would ever again return to this house—one which had seen so many years of living and which held all of his best memories. 

 

It seemed strange now, the silence of the place, the still traces of the remains of their onetime life, what with the adrenaline pumping still in his veins, what with his heart still beating somewhat erratically, fresh from the thrill of the chase.

He walked into the dining room, and stopped short. Win was there, as if dressed to go out, but waiting, instead, for him.

And suddenly, it wasn't so difficult. He didn't need to write a poem. Or even to perform any great feats of action.

What he had done that evening was simply his job, after all. To serve and protect, without fear or favor. 

He needed only the truth, to speak the truth that had been true for so long that it was a part of him now, a part of his very bones, a supporting pillar of who he was, impossible to remove from the very depths of him.

 

"Is everyone all right?" Win asked. Her face was fairly stoic, but in her voice was the trace of a tremor. “Morse? Fancy?”

"Yes," Thursday said, simply. 

She smiled tentatively in relief.

“Morse’s typewriter might never be the same, though,” he said.

 _“What?”_ Win asked. 

”He chucked it at some two-bob villain’s head.”

 _“What?_ ” Win asked again, this time with just the barest breath of a laugh. It was the first time she had smiled at him since before Christmas.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Thursday took one step forward.

 

And then he said them, the words that he needed to say, even if it was the end of things. At least he would have known that he said them once, what he should have said long ago.

 

“I’m sorry," he said, simply, heavily. "I made a mess of things. I love you.”

Win took a hesitant step forward, “Sorry was all I wanted," she said. 

“I know,” Thursday said. 

 

For a moment, they said nothing—they simply looked at one another . . . and she might go her way, she might ask him to sign those papers, but, still, there would be one thing that would never change.

 

“I’ve loved you too long to stop now,” Thursday said.

Win took one step closer and then took his heavy and calloused hands—the same hands that had, or late, taken kickbacks and roughed up suspects—and held them lightly in hers.

“I suppose I have, too,” she said. 

 ********************

"Are you back, Puli?" Helena called. 

 

A moment’s courage or a lifetime of regret? That’s always been the choice. He had taken the former, and so he could answer her truthfully. 

"Yes," Reginald said. "I'm back." 

 

Before he had set out for Wicklesham, the thought had occurred to him: if he were to die that day, his death would most likely be clean and quick. 

And Helena would be left alone to her less easy end, without so much as someone to hold her hand. 

It wasn't so frightening to die as to think that she might die alone. 

There were no word to describe his relief at coming back to her. None to describe his even greater relief that he had come back to her as himself. 

 

"Is everything all right then?" she said. 

"Yes," Reginald said. 

"Puli has saved the day," she smiled. She tilted her face, looking at him fondly. "Do you remember how we met?" 

"Of course," Reginald said. "It was at that gala. At the governor's house.  And you were surrounded by scores of admirers." 

Helena's face fell, as if she had not been greatly impressed. "The governor's son wouldn't stop talking about cricket. About all his stunning plays in the latest match. I was bored to tears. And then you made your way over, through all the crowds. And I asked, 'have you come to save me?'"

“Yes,” Reginald agreed. “And I said, ‘Yes, I rather thought I had.’”

“And then you did,” she said.

 

Reginald's heart lurched in surprise.

Had she felt that way?

He had never known.

 

She took his hands in hers, and, in the hush of the darkened bedroom, it seemed as if time slowed, as if the hands on the very clock on the nightstand had grown heavy, revolving more slowly, granting them a reprieve.

When they were young, walking arm in arm through botanic gardens filled with banyan and mango trees, a day seemed to last for an eternity. As they approached middle age, time had sped up, as the business of life, the need for distraction after the loss of Dulcie, consumed them.

Now, in the waning of their time as man and wife, time slowed again, as if giving them a chance to meet afresh, to see each other clear, as if giving them the time to say all the things they might have said before, but hadn’t.

But now they would.

He and Helena had come so far, so far—across decades and continents. And now, they would end the journey as they had begun it—hand in hand, together. 

It was a new beginning, this end of days. In this odd suspension of time, death was not so much different from life, it seemed. Both were much like the flight of the fledgling: the young bird considers the skies, a vast and blue and strange world, and it wonders, and it fears, and then, against all reason, it trusts to its frail wings and takes flight, soaring off into a new way of being, even if it thought it was impossible. 

And discovering this new possibility, conquering its fears, is its own sort of bittersweet joy.

It was just as Morse had said.

If the pelican can, so can you.

*************

George and Shirley stood on a bridge over the River Isis, as the sky purpled in the West and the first and brightest stars began to shine against the falling darkness of the East.

It was a warm night, but the city was still, and the river still, too, as smooth as glass and as slow as the last days of the summer.

"If this were the movies," George said,  "And I were a girl, I guess I’d jump into your arms and say, ‘my hero.'" 

“Well, why don’t you?” Shirley asked. 

“What?” George asked.

“Why don’t _you_ say it?” Shirley said, with her sphinx-like smile. "Go on." 

And she thought she had him, as she always did. But George had another idea, one that he was sure might, for once, take the ever composed WPC Trewlove by surprise.

“I suppose I should. I suppose I can always count on you, isn’t that right?" George said. 

“Of course,” she said. “It’s my job, isn't it? Having my colleague's back?" 

“Well, then," George murmured. "My hero." 

Shirley's cool smile deepened, and reached her eyes. It was a rare, true smile on one who usually kept her walls unassailable, and George was not fool enough to miss his chance. 

"Or, he said, "I might say something else." 

“Like what?" she asked. 

 

He turned to her and looked into her heart-shaped face, at the tendrils of hair that had fallen around her temples, moving with the hint of summer breeze. Then, he took her hands in his and dropped to one knee.

"Shirley Trewlove," he asked, "Will you marry me?" 

Her face twinkled just for a moment, with a shimmer of surprise, but, in an instant, she was once again her no-nonsense self. 

"Of course, George," she said, crisply.  "I thought you'd never ask."

And then she pulled him up and leaned forward, her lips meeting his in a kiss.

 

*******

Max looked out the car window of the sky blue Jag, as dark trees lined past, black-gray against a blue-black sky.

He had not had his car at the quarry, of course, having been abducted from the mortuary, and Morse had insisted on driving him home, adamant that he should take it easy for a while, have a chance to rest.

Max had balked a bit: one wondered how much rest one might hope to receive being driven by a man who had recently had his driver's license revoked, but, to Max’s relieved surprise, Morse seemed capable enough, watching the road with sharp blue eyes.

"You know, Morse," Max said. “You’re not a bad driver. Perhaps your problem is that you have moved back and forth too often—driving on the left, driving on the right. It’s apt to confuse anyone. Perhaps you would be better off settling in one spot or the other.”

As Max said the words, he realized that they carried with them the trace of a wish. He would miss Morse, he realized, when he was gone. He wouldn’t mind a bit, all things considered, if he decided to settle permanently in Oxford.

But Morse said, “Yes. I think so, too,” and from the longing in his voice, Max could tell that he was already thinking of France.

 

"Thanks, by the way,” Morse said.

Max turned in his seat. “Whatever for?”

"For putting my shoes up by the door. It was you who found them in the grass, wasn’t it?”

Max huffed a laugh. "I suppose in the end I did myself a good turn, by sparing you the time it would have taken to look for them.”

"Otherwise, I would have had to come out in my socks,” Morse laughed.

”Well,” Max said, “that wouldn’t be too out of keeping with the rest of your ensemble.”

Morse took his eyes off the road long enough to look down at his clothes—a Nancy-Sud football club T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans.

"Oh," he said, holding up a pinch of his T-shirt. "It's Guillaume's team. Bix and I have been to a few of the matches." He laughed, then, and added, "Neither of us knows a thing about what is going on. Only the general direction in which the players are supposed to be going.”

"I thought that Bixby played football," Max said. "In school." 

"What?" Morse asked. 

"I thought you had said so. Or he had mentioned it. At one of the quiz nights. Or, actually, perhaps it was Thursday who mentioned it once." 

Morse looked confused for a moment, and then changed the subject. "Well," he said, defensively. “I suppose I looked ridiculous. But it wasn't as if I had known I would be  _going_ anywhere.”

“Be that as it may.  I can't say I'm sorry you didn't take the time to change,” Max said, placatingly. “All’s well that ends well, yes?”

”Hmmmmm,” Morse agreed.

 

There was a companionable silence then, that fell between them, as the well-tuned engine of the Jag hummed along, carrying them along into the darkening night. It was this, Max knew that he would most miss about Morse—these silences that felt like a warm and thorough acceptance. It was difficult to find someone who liked to talk, but who appreciated quiet, too.

Max glanced over at him, and it was clear Morse was deep in thought, off locked away in himself, looking through the windscreen as the first faint stars lit up on the horizon.

"You know," he said. "After an evening like this, I sort of begin to believe that Bix is right." 

Morse looked at him in surprise. What could the man mean? Was he speaking of Bixby's talk about "other worlds," that Morse had mentioned that day in the hammock? Or of Bixby’s belief in God?

"About what?" Max asked.

"If I'm going to go someplace for an entire summer, I really should bring more than two pairs of shoes," Morse said.

 

He frowned then, and added, with an odd trace of apology, "I can be careless, sometimes, with things." 

 

Somehow, Max understood that this was Morse's rather roundabout way at making certain, before he left, that things were all right between them.

"You're careful with the most important things, I'd say," Max said. 

And Morse smiled, seemingly mollified. 

 

Suddenly, though, something was bothering Max. He wasn't sure just why, but he felt uneasy, somehow with the idea of Morse leaving Oxford, of Morse going back to France.  He thought of some excuse to speak to him further, until he could have the chance to clear his head, to see if he could pinpoint what it was that was troubling him before Morse left in a sweep of headlights in the night—and then he landed on the perfect thing. 

"Oh, Morse. By the way. You might want to stop in for a moment. You left a notebook, out in the garden, the last time you were by." 

"Oh?" Morse asked. "Is that the red one?" 

"Yes, I believe it is," Max said. 

"I've been looking all over hell and half of Georgia for that," Morse said. But then he added, "But you know, I'm glad I left it at your house. I meant to give it to you." 

Max raised his brows, surprised. 

"It's . . . it's all about your garden," Morse explained. 

"But Morse," Max protested. "I've seen you writing in that thing all of the summer. Don't you need those poems? For your publisher?" 

Morse looked at him, his eyes wide. "Those poems aren't for _publishing_ , Max. We don't want _everyone_ finding out about the place." 

 

Max looked out the window to hide his smile, at the incongruity of Morse speaking of his little patch of earth as a possible new and trendy destination, one that might get ruined by the onslaught of too many tourists, with garish hats and cameras strung around their necks. 

 

But then, Morse's words made Max realize what it was that was bothering him. 

Because, it wasn't difficult to suppose that Bixby perhaps _did_ play football--if not all over hell, than at least over half of Georgia. Or _somewhere_ not far from the Gulf Coast of Florida. Where he "owned real estate,” ostensibly.

Hmmmmmm.

Most likely a sandcastle he had built when he was seven. 

 

Suddenly, Max remembered driving along a stretch or road much like this, with Morse, last summer. 

 

_“You know,” Morse said. “I thought of calling you when I first got to France.”_

_“I wish you would have. I would have been happy to hear from you,” Max said._

_Morse laughed. “Don’t be so sure of that. I was going to hit you up for airfare back to London. I started to think, ‘What am I doing here? I don’t even know this man’s name, for God’s sake.’”_

_“Well, surely you know the man’s name, Morse," Max said._

_Morse raised his eyebrows, “Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. No one’s ever heard a thing at all about any Joss Bixby before around ‘55. It seems he popped out of nowhere,” he laughed blithely. . .  “just as if he leaped from Zeus’ skull."_

 

"Morse," Max said. "Last summer. You said . . . you said you didn't believe that Joss Bixby was Bixby's real name. Is that true?" 

Morse looked startled. "Did I?" 

"Yes," Max said, simply. 

"I don't think I would have said _that_ ," Morse countered. 

"Well, you did," Max said. Then he hesitated. "I'm not asking you to say anything that you don't want to say. But I do want to ask: do you know it? Do you know now?" 

 

Morse was silent for a long while, taking a sweeping curve through a stand of fir trees. 

"Yes," he said at last. 

 

Max nodded.

Morse would be all right, then. 

And so would he. 

*****

Morse pulled up on into Max's drive, and Max was surprised to see another vehicle was parked there. Not a green bicycle or a sky-blue Jag, as there had been off and on during the summer, but rather a modest black sedan.

 

Morse eyed it and said with atypical discretion, "I suppose I had better say goodbye here," he said. "It looks like you have company. I don't want to interrupt." 

"What would bring him here?" Max asked meditatively, more to himself than to Morse. 

Morse shrugged. "He may have heard, gossip being what it is. A night like this . . . sometimes it takes a night like this to show you what's really important."

"Hmmm," Max said, not certain whether he agreed or not. 

Max sat in the car, looking blankly through the windscreen. Morse watched him, archly.

 

And then he slowly got out of the car.

”Night, Max. Come and visit sometime. We have a big lake, you know, out at the edge of our woods. I don’t know what sort of fish are in it, but they’d be challenging to catch, I would think.”

”Why would you say that?" 

Morse shrugged. "Bixby tears around the place on his hydroplane. They're most likely the most timid fish in existence." 

Max snorted softly. "Good night, Morse," he said. 

"Night," Morse said, his wide mouth quirked in a smile. 

 

Morse pulled out of the drive then, as Max stood, remaining planted where he was. 

Morse regarded him through the windscreen and jerked his head toward the garden gate, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. 

Max shook his head at him, in mock exacerbation, until Morse turned the wheel, pulling out onto the main road and heading back toward Lake Silence. 

 

Max went to the back gate and through into the garden. Someone was there, in one of the white wrought-iron chairs, as there had so often been that summer--but the scene, like the one in the driveway, was familiar, but off. Rather than a man with a lanky frame slouched over a notebook, with hair that was red gold in the waning summer light, it was someone else entirely--a man with broader shoulders, sitting stiffly, with cropped hair the color of fall chestnuts. Edward.

He stood up abruptly at Max’s approach, his face oddly ashen.

“Max," he said, looking at him almost as if he were a ghost, “I heard. Every doctor calling in for a script has been buzzing about it. Are you . . . are you all right?" 

"Yes," Max said, crisply. "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." 

 

But perhaps that was the wrong thing to say: instead of laughing along with him, Edward seemed to pale further. 

 

Then he remembered, just hours ago, sitting with Morse in the back of the truck:

_I thought I told you not to exert yourself," Max said, dryly._

_"But . . . I had to . . . I . . . " Morse managed._

Max had spoken in jest, to relieve a bit of the tension of the situation, but Morse had looked uncharacteristically stricken, as if he had taken his admonitions to heart. 

 

For the first time, it occurred to Max: 

Perhaps he wasn't the most sensitive person in the world.

 

"I'm all right," Max said, making an effort to drape some softness into his voice.  "Although, I did break my glasses, I'm afraid." 

“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” Edward said, seeming from moment to moment to spring back into his typical laughing and easy-going self. “Perhaps I might fix them.”

“They’re beyond help, more's the pity," Max said. "Shame. I was fond of that pair.”

“I might give it a try, all the same,” Edward replied. “You know, when he find something we love, it’s for the best sometimes, if we give it a chance.”

“Is that right?” Max said.

“Yes. Even if it’s a bit cracked.”

“Oh, is it?" Max asked, wryly. "Is it my glasses we are talking about? Or is it you?”

Edward laughed. “Neither. Actually, I was talking about you.”

“Well,” Max said. “I suppose we’ll just have to agree to disagree, then.”

 

"Or," Edward said, taking a step closer. And it seemed to Max suddenly almost as if Edward was holding his breath, almost as if it was the very first night that they had met. "Or," he murmured. "We could try not talking at all."

And then he took Max's hands firmly into his own, and leaned down to claim a kiss. 

*******

Strange was finishing the last of the paperwork, setting it all neatly into the file, when, to his surprise, Joan Thursday came into the office, striding quickly through the bay of desks. 

“Hello, you," Joan called.

"Joanie," Strange replied. "I haven't seen you since the Humbolt case."

 

"Your father’s fine," he added, reassuring her as she approached. Doubtless, from the worried look on her face, she had heard about what had happened. "He just went home." 

I know,” Joan said. “My mother told me. I came to . . . . "

And then she stopped short.

"To what?" Strange asked, simply.

She reached out and took one of his hands in hers.  

"I came to see about you,” she said.

************

 

"Whoever it is who designs airports must simply be the worst sort of sadists," Endeavour hissed, as they strode along the concourse. "The lights, the confusion, that terrible buzzing that passes for announcements." 

Bixby said nothing. He quite liked the buzz and hum and excitement of airports, but he knew that Endeavour was mindful of last summer, when they had come to the airport after retrieving his bag from The Wildwood, after the Finch case, when everything had gone so badly wrong.

When he wasn't casting aspersions on the place, likening Heathrow International Airport to a ring of Dante’s Inferno,  Endeavour seemed to be trying to tune the world out, keeping his eyes lowered, trained on the wheels of Bixby's suitcase as Bix walked one pace ahead of him—just as Bix had seen Endeavour do last summer.

But this time, Endeavour's face was marked with an even graver air of concentration; for this summer, he was not only watching the wheels of Bixby’s suitcase ahead, but listening for the roll of two suitcases behind him as well.

 

And the trouble was, they kept fading away, either one or the other, as Esme and Guillaume stopped before the windows of shops whenever something caught their fancy.

Bixby didn't see the harm in it; they could easily spot them ahead and catch up. But Endeavour seemed to feel differently; he was convinced somehow that one of the kids would get separated, wander onto the wrong plane, and, inexplicably, wind up in Argentina.    

 

And so, every now and then, Endeavour stopped short and backtracked, off to herd along whichever of the two of them had strayed, while all the while casting backwards glances to keep Bixby in his line of sight.

 

Esme, thankfully, eventually came to understand that Endeavour—in working so hard to keep them together— was actually trying to assuage his own fears of the place, and she began to play along, asking him again about the gate. 

 

"What gate it is again?" she asked.

 

Even though Endeavour had told each of them which it was at least a dozen times. 

 

"It's E7. E7," Endeavour said. "And make sure the sign says Paris, too. They love to change the gate at the last minute. No chance to create more chaos knowingly overlooked." 

 

Endeavour punctuated his pronouncement with a snort of contempt and then ground to a halt, his face the picture of impatience, as he turned and stalked off in the opposite direction, off to fetch Guillaume, who had stopped before a window of souvenir British football jerseys. 

“Would you please stay with the group?” Endeavour said. “Do you know what happens, when you get lost in airports? Do you _want_ to end up in Argentina?”

“I’m not six,” Guillaume complained. “I know the gate. E7.”

  

"Come on, Guillaume," Bix called. 

"Yes, let's go," Endeavour said, waspishly. "Let's just get to the gate."

"It's E7, isn't that right? It's right over there” Esme said. 

  
And it was. 

Thank the Lord and Hallelujah.

 

They trundled over to it, remaining together as a flock, now that they were in the home stretch.

Esme reached the counter first and handed the woman standing behind it her boarding pass and passport. 

  
“Did you not hear the announcement, Miss?" the woman asked. "They’ve changed the gate. It’s A6." 

"They really did change the gate," Guillaume said, stunned.

 

"We’ll never make it," Endeavour said, faintly.

He looked pale, suddenly, as if already imagining that they would live out the rest of their lives as exiles, as renegades running from the law, adrift in South America.

 

"Of course we will," Bix said, bracingly. "We're all fairly quick people. Just follow me and try to keep up. No looking in shop windows. I know a shortcut or two.”

Bix took off, then, half running, his suitcase rolling along behind him, leaving the others no time to protest, leaving them with no choice but to sprint after him.

Soon, they were four in a compact diamond formation, racing down the concourse. A few people scowled at them, and others, who must have once found themselves in similar situations, looked empathetic and made way for them.

 

 Bixby cut a corner through a large open restaurant, and they had to narrow to single file to beeline through the tables. They came out onto another concourse and kept going. 

"Go, go, go," Bixby chanted.

It was actually sort exhilarating, leading their little group. He felt capable, as if he _did_ have the power, after all, to make everything right, to make everything go their way.

 

Who would have thought having a little responsibility could be fun?

 

It was just another game, another gamble. The St. Briuec four against the flight crew of Air France flight 1516. Who would be the quickest? It was all just another toss of the dice he was certain he would win. 

Bix dodged over to a flight of moving stairs, and, instead of waiting for the apparatus to carry him up, he started running up the thing as other passengers moved to the right, allowing him to pass. The others followed, their suitcases hitting the metal edges of the steps as they ran. 

And then they were flying down another concourse.  Endeavour seemed to be running out of breath—he still didn’t quite seem one hundred percent his old self—but he was doing all right; that was fine, then—because there was the gate. The waiting area was deserted, but the pass attendant was still at the counter.

 

Bix flashed his passport first, so that it would garner the least degree of scrutiny, and then stepped back to wave the others through.

“Go, go, go,” he said, as they flipped their passports open and passed through one by one.

 

An then they were heading down the hollow, echoing walkway and on to the plane.

Endeavour collapsed into the seat with a barrage of coughing, and Bixby sank beside him, as Esme and Guillaume filed into their seats, directly in front of them.

Endeavour looked at him, his blue eyes bright.

“That was actually sort of exciting, wasn’t it?" he said. 

Bixby quirked a smile. 

 

Says the man who went flying off to a shoot-out not two days ago, he thought.

But he said nothing.

He knew that Endeavour wouldn't like him mentioning any of that, in front of the kids. 

*********

It was dark by the time they pulled up in front of Esme and Guillaume's house in town. The kids had half fallen asleep, but stirred when the car came to a stop. Bix and Endeavour helped them to get their luggage out of the boot, and then their father, who had heard the sound of the engine, came out to help them to bring it all inside. 

 

"Au revoir, Endeavour. Au revoir, Monsieur Bixby," they called, as he and Endeavour went back out to the car.

 "Au revoir, kiddos," Bix said. 

“Next summer, we should check out Buenos Aires,” Guillaume called.

Endeavour regarded him suspiciously.

“Ha ha,” he said, as he sunk into the passenger’s seat.

Bixby got behind the wheel. No. It wasn't half bad, having a bit of responsibility. 

But it wasn't half bad discharging it either. 

 

Bix started up the engine and turned through the darkness, taking the road leading out of the town and out to their house. It was the same road he had travelled last fall, coming home from Sylvie's party, when he had frightened the Endeavour look-alike—who had turned out to be Endeavour himself—into the ditch. 

 

He had not been himself that fall; it was as if he had played the role of Joss Bixby for so long, that that was all he had become—a role, a mask, a smile with no substance. Without Endeavour there to add some gleam to his flash, he felt as one-dimensional as his forged passport, as thin and as weightless as a gold gambling chip.  

Even Sylive has seen it. 

  _“Well, I wish I could say this was fun. My God, you’ve been a pill. Why don’t you go and look for him, if you’re so cut up about it?  It’s not like you to mope like this.” She paused and frowned. “You really ought to, you know.”_

_“Ought to what?”_

_“Go and look for him, if that’s how you feel. Actually, this might sound strange, but I’m starting to think he was good for you. He made you seem, I don’t know, more like a real person.”_

_Bixby stilled at that. “What do you mean by that? A_ r _eal person?”_

_“I don’t know. You used to be such a shallow bastard. You’ve got more, well, gravitas now, I suppose.”_

 

And then she had gone, leaving him to stare at a blank ceiling in an empty bed.

He remembered that hollow feeling that had settled deep within his chest as he drove through the night, back to the quiet house, where nothing but a vacant stretch of hours, an abandoned record player, and a pillow that still held a trace of the scent of autumn leaves awaited him.  How even the stars had brought on a dull ache, as he remembered another night, lying under them beside Endeavour. 

 

Endeavour had become a part of him, so much so that even bits of poetry, in the form of a bastardized version of Ernest Dowson, had popped, unbidden, into his head. 

" _I called for madder music and for stronger wine, but when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, there falls thy shadow, Endeavour, the night is thine."_

And  _“I have been faithful to the, Endeavour in my fashion.”_

 

When Josiah Taylor had jumped onto that ship heading off from New York, he had thought of all of the things that lay ahead of him—he was off to the land of castles and of kings, of ancient landscapes and high teas and gleaming tables set for fifty. He was so focused on building his future, of building the bright persona of Joss Bixby, that he didn't stop to think of the sweetness of what he had lost. Of the quiet happinesses of his old life, before he found himself alone, the last one of his family—of his great uncle telling stories into the night, of sitting at his ease on the front porch, watching lightning bugs in the trees, thumbing through his battered copy of _The Great Gatsby_ while his parents chatted inside, of the smile of pride on his father's face when he caught the pass for the winning touchdown. 

 

And all of the tender ties he suspected that Endeavour had never known. Endeavour never spoke of it much, but Bixby could see that lack there, between the lines, in Endeavour's constant worry that Bixby might one day see him as a burden, as an albatross weighing him down. 

"I don't want you to feel obligated," he said, again and again, as if perceiving some uncertain disaster glittering like a storm on the horizon.

 

What Endeavour didn't seem to understand was that Bix _wanted_ to be obligated. And that he wanted Endeavour to feel the same way—to put up with his shady past and his own, uncertain future. With his jokes that meant to charm but sometimes fell flat, as if he was still, in some secret corner of his heart, trying too hard to play the part that he had envisioned for himself at sixteen. With the fact that, yes, sometimes he was just as shallow as a puddle and as driven as a freight train, barreling though life without giving the slightest thought to the lonely moons of Saturn. 

There was a sweetness in the security of family that Bixby had held cheaply because it had come so simply, so naturally to him as a child. But, after living outside its auspices for so long, he was more than ready to welcome it back, like an old friend, like the forgotten souvenir you find in an old trunk, that, the moment you hold it, reminds you of many fond adventures of long ago. 

Endeavour was the reason that tonight, he wasn't just going to one of his many properties. 

He was going home. 

 

***************

 

“We’re home, Endeavour.”

Endeavour opened his eyes. The sky was dark and light with stars, and the air smelled like wind and warmth and evergreen, and his head was lolling heavily on Bixby’s shoulder. For a moment, he felt disoriented, but then he realized he must have fallen asleep on the road up to the house.

As happy as he was to be home, Endeavour remained, for a moment, where he was, overcome with a sense of deja vu. There was something in the change in the air of this end of summer night that was so much like another night—the night he had fallen asleep on the ride home from that gala in London. 

 

Bix had pulled up in front of the lake house and said, “You’re home, Pagan,” on a night just like this.

It was the last night that he _was_ Pagan, the night that Bixby asked to call him something else. 

On that night, his mind had been bleary with Scotch, but tonight, the world was clear and the skies were clear, bright with a universe of stars, and Bixby’s words seemed to resonate in the darkness like a sweet echo, of something he had always hoped for even when he didn't know it. 

 

_We're home, Endeavour._

 

They were two words and a contraction he never thought to hear in reference to himself at all, let alone strung together in such a tender sequence.

 

It wasn’t so awful, after all, the name Endeavour. It wasn’t so terrible to try, even if things didn’t always quite work out the way one hoped. Perhaps trying in itself was a virtue. Perhaps it is in trying, after all, that we, blindly and searchingly, find our way home.

 

”Yes,” Endeavour said, "We're home." 

 

 ***********

Endeavour dropped his bag in the hall as he went into the house and headed straight for the drawing room. He looked around the room for a moment, his hands on his hips, taking in the warm familiarity of the place—a place so familiar he might imagine words from his poems to be written there, on the very walls. 

 

He was home, at last.

He collapsed onto the thick Persian carpet, stretching out in satisfaction. 

 

 

“Let’s unpack later,” Endeavour said.

“Sounds fine to me,” said Bixby, for whom the job would be somewhat more onerous, considering he had five times the amount of luggage.

“Do you want me to put on a record?” Bix asked. 

“Sure,” Endeavour said. “You pick it out.”

“Really?” Bixby asked, delighted.

“Hmmmm,” Endeavour said.

 

Endeavour closed his eyes as Bixby flipped open the top of the record player. But then, Bix padded back into the hall for some odd reason, and Endeavour was almost tempted to open his heavy eyes to see what he was up to.  But there was no need. In a moment, Bix was back, and Endeavour could hear him putting a record on the turntable.

The music started up. And Endeavour opened his eyes.

The song was _almost_ recognizable as a nocturne of Chopin’s, but it was slowed to a slinking sort of tempo, and swathed with an overlay of seductive saxophone and spine-tingling marimba— unbearably swarmy.

 

Endeavour put his hand to his forehead and groaned. “Not this,” he said

It must be that record—the one that Strange had given him in hospital. 

He was surprised they didn’t come out and call the album, “Make out to Mozart."

 

Strange, you shouldn't have. 

 

“Hey there, baby,” Bixby said in a deep and resonant voice, one that he must have supposed was sure to sweep anyone right off their feet.

“Oh, god. Not this, too," Endeavour said. 

Bixby laughed, his dark eyes shining with merriment. He toed off his shoes and then stretched out on the carpet beside him, giving him a hopelessly sultry look that was all just too much. Endeavour covered his face with his hands. 

"You're laughing," Bixby said knowingly. 

"No, I'm not," Endeavour said. "I'm utterly horrified." 

 

Perhaps it was being back at the house after being gone for so long that prompted it; for, suddenly, Endeavour felt another surge of deja vu. Lying stretched out next to Bixby on the carpet, it all felt just as it had last fall, when he had come back from Scotland.

He remembered Bix’s pleased surprise when he had rolled over and straddled him, pinning his arms up over his head—and so, Endeavour did it again, catching him off guard, taking Bixby’s hands in his and holding his arms up over his head, rolling over on top of him and lowering himself down, so that they were pressed together, hips to chest.

Bix laughed. And he must have been remembering, too, because he asked, “What’s your name baby?” in that same deep and ridiculously sultry voice. 

 

“Endeavour,” Endeavour said, simply. “It’s a virtue name.”

 

And Bixby was laughing; he didn’t know that Endeavour had spoken in earnest.

But it was all right. It was just how he was.

 

Bixby made light of everything and made light. 

 

And as Endeavour leaned forward to seal his mouth in a kiss, the thought occurred to him: he was supposed to be a poet, but, in many ways, it was Bixby who was the true writer between them.

He had found him at the lake house, a fragment of a plot line, an abrupt series cliffhanger, and, with a handful of magic dust, he had rewritten his entire story.

It seemed to Endeavour that this life had been _meant_ to be a detective story: Endeavour should have left Thursday at the cordon, walked alone through the fields, powerless in the scheme of rank and file to say anything to even try to change his old mentor's fate; Endeavour was supposed to fall in love with the suspect, to see in her someone as lost and as lonely as himself, to kiss her and feel a glimmer of hope in the darkness, only to have to arrest her, struggling in the drive, in the final scene; he was supposed to look in on Box and Thursday though a bright pub window, and then turn up his collar against the rain, and head off, a solitary figure, into the bleakness of the lamplit and misty night.

 

But instead, Bixby had hijacked his story, had flipped everything, just as he was wont to flip a gold gambling chip into the air, turning his life into something more along her lines of a Shakespearean comedy.

 

In the final act, the villains are hauled off in chains, and Jago is led off in handcuffs, and John the Bastard has fled Messina.

In the final act, all of the false identities are unmasked: Cesario is Viola, and Ganymede is Rosalind, and the prince of the manor is a tenant farmer’s son from Mississippi, and it’s not Pagan who is living in exile in a lake house hidden in the Forest of Arden, but rather Endeavour.

And by the final scene, all of the conflicts are resolved—and the sun is the moon and The Plough is The Big Dipper, and ‘don’t follow me,” Pagan said, and Bix, like Petruchio, smiled as if they were the most charming words in the world.

And then, after the swirl of misunderstandings and false starts, the lovers align in perfect symmetry, and all of the couples fall into a queue—those in the flush of youth and those near the end of their long journey—and, much to his surprise, even he, Endeavour, finding his place among them.

And each pair clasps hands, and walks together to the edge of the stage, one by one, taking their final bow before the curtain falls.

And then, they set off, two by two, and live their happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :0)


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